


The Stars Stare Down, Uncaring

by Smokeybubble



Series: The Stars 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Graphic Description, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 113,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokeybubble/pseuds/Smokeybubble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Series.  Caught off guard, Sam is kidnapped by two men who sell children into slavery.  While his family desperately searches for him, Sam is thrown into a nightmare he never could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, well this is my first solo fanfic, so uhh, read and review! This is a really short chapter to begin with, but they get longer as they go. Enjoy!

Regaining consciousness was hard, harder than it had any right to be. Making the attempt was like trying to swim through a pit of tar with your hands tied behind your back and iron weights attached to your legs. Every time I tried, I sort of floundered halfway to the surface, then gave up and allowed myself to be dragged back into the murk. In a distant corner of my mind still bearing some semblance of coherency, I understood that I needed to wake up. Something bad had happened, something really bad, and I needed to stop sitting on my ass _right the fuck now_. Unfortunately it took the rest of me a little longer to get the memo. When it finally registered, the tar had thinned to a liquid more consistent to a clingy mud. With a colossal effort, I finally managed to claw my way to the surface, and opened my eyes.

  
It was a few moments before they actually decided to start working. I stared dully at the ceiling, too exhausted to do anything else. My body felt like it had been pumped full of lead, and my thoughts were strangely disjointed. I couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.

  
A pinching sensation around my right wrist finally gave me enough motivation to tear my gaze from the ceiling and slowly roll my eyes in that direction. The blurry figure of a man was bending over me, fiddling with something above my head. I didn’t remember ever seeing him before. His bright blue eyes and straight dark hair were unfamiliar, as was the tanned complexion. A small gold stud sparkled in his ear.

  
I stared curiously for a moment, confused but not frightened, wondering who he was. His eyebrows were drawn slightly in concentration, and he was still leaning over me, hands busy with something outside my field of view. I didn’t realize what that was until the pinching returned and a smooth band of metal clicked shut around my wrist. _Are those... handcuffs? What the hell?_ I thought slowly, noticing for the first time that my other hand was cuffed as well. I tried to tug on the restraints, but all that happened was a faint ripple along the muscles in my arms, which seemed to have gone on strike. It was as though my brain was cut off from the rest of my body. Just blinking was an effort.

  
However, the slight movement had caught the man’s attention. He glanced over at me, then his mouth split into a grin, the teeth startlingly white against his brown skin. “You’re awake,” he said. His tone was light, casual. He straightened up and surveyed me, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. “I’m surprised. We dosed you good enough to keep you down for another couple of hours at least.” I looked at him, the meaning of his words sluggishly filtering through my thick skull. _Wha... he_ drugged _me?_ I finally thought, slightly indignant. I couldn’t grasp why this bothered me so much. I had a feeling it wasn’t a polite thing you usually did to people, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember why. Frustrated, I turned this over in my head. Vaguely, I realized the drug was doing this to me, but my focus kept slipping away, leaving my thoughts a chaotic, senseless mess. At last I gave up and just eyed the man, who was watching my internal struggle with apparent amusement.

  
He chuckled slightly at my glazed look and drew a thick wad of fabric from his pocket. “I guess you’re still a little out of it,” he smirked. “Still,” he forced my mouth open and jammed the cloth inside. “We can’t risk you actually wakin’ up and calling for help. I’d hate to upset the neighbors like that.” Another strip was wound around my head, keeping the first firmly in place. He sat back with a satisfied air and looked me up and down. “That’s better,” he proclaimed, checking the cuffs a final time.

  
By now, the hazy fog filling my head had thinned minutely, but enough for me to yank feebly at my restraints. The man laughed, and gave me a mocking pat on the head before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him with a snap. I fell back, feeling the clouds flooding back with a vengeance, and reluctantly allowed the drug to drag me back into the waiting blackness.

 

 

The next time I woke, the confused, fuzzy feeling had lessened considerably. Unfortunately, panic had rushed in to take its place. I peered through the darkness the room had been left in- windows either being non-existent or blocked off- and felt my heartbeat start to race. My breaths were coming fast and shallow, and sweat beaded on my palms. I stared wildly around, jerking against my shackled wrists, thinking for an insane moment that maybe I could tear the metal apart like Leoben fucking Conoy and escape. _Calm down Sam! Just chill for a minute and think about this!_ I screamed at myself.

  
With an effort, I stopped thrashing and lay there, panting. My heart was still desperately trying to bust its way out of my ribcage, as though determined to explode out of my chest in a gory demise. I took a few deep breaths, willing for it to slow, and as I did I realized blood was trickling down my arms from where the metal bands had dug into the skin. I ignored it, tugging once more on the cuffs, but they were clamped tightly around my wrists. Even with my skin slick with blood, I could tell I wouldn’t be able to pull my hands free. For a brief moment I wished Dean was here. A smile tugged at my lips. I could almost hear his exasperated voice. “Christ Sammy, next time you get yourself kidnapped, I’m leaving you!”

  
I mentally shook myself, angry. I couldn’t depend on Dean and Dad to get me out of every little situation. I was a Winchester, and dammit I was going to get myself out of whatever shit I had walked into. With that, I pulled myself out of my thoughts and looked around the room, scanning it for something that would help me.

  
The space was small, maybe nine feet by seven. The only source of illumination was the small chink of light that filtered in from under the single door. By its feeble glow, and a great deal of eye-straining, I could make out no windows adorning the walls. For the first time, now I was calm enough to notice, I saw I was lying on a small, dirty mattress. My legs were cuffed securely to the foot of the bed, and my wrists were chained to each side of the headboard. To my disappointment, it was metal. Carefully, I felt around for anything I could use as a lockpick. The smooth wall yielded nothing, nor did the mattress. My spirits fell. Of all the times I had slept on spring-filled motel beds that jabbed me mercilessly whenever I so much as twitched, now had to be the time I actually needed one.

  
Moving on for the moment, I tried rubbing my face against my shoulder, hoping I could dislodge the gag. I could hear faint voices coming through the thin wall behind me, I only needed one good shout to draw their attention. All my efforts got me was a growing sense of despair. The gag was tied too tightly and even yelling through the thick cloth produced only a sort of muffled, drawn-out grunt. I tried anyway, shouting at the top of my lungs until my throat was raw.

  
By the time I collapsed back against the bed, real fear was starting to well up. The people who had taken me had been meticulous. They knew what they were doing. That line of thought brought up a disturbing question, one I had been trying to avoid. Who took me? And for what? The whole thing didn’t set off any paranormal warning bells, and sure Dad had made a lot of enemies over the years, but to go so far as to kidnap his son? _Then again, with our luck it wouldn’t be that surprising,_ I thought wryly. _Not to mention we can deal with some pretty messed up people._

  
As if summoned by my thoughts, footsteps suddenly sounded outside the door, accompanied by two sets of voices. I tensed, straining to hear what was being said. Before I could make out more than a few meaningless words, the door was flung open. I squinted, eyes burning in the unexpected light, and turned my face away so they could adjust.

  
“...you imagine how much money he’s gonna get us?” someone said. I recognized it as the same dark haired guy I’d seen when I first woke up. A gleeful chuckle followed.

  
“You don’t have to tell me. I’m getting hard just looking at him.” The second voice was also male, but deeper, with the heavy rasp of a long-time smoker. I could almost hear the tobacco on his breath.

  
Loud footfalls crossed the room and a shadow fell over me. I turned and glared up at the man with all the defiance I could muster. The light cast his body in silhouette, and I could see he was broadshoulded, more so than his friend, but no physical wonder by any stretch. I was pretty sure I could take him if I wasn’t lashed to a bed. Sideburns ran down each side of his face, enhancing the square line of his jaw. The guy’s hair was a short, light blonde, with green eyes currently narrowed with some emotion that looked worryingly like Dean when he was checking out a curvy waitress chick. A shiver ran down my back. His expression was one that you definitely did not want to be the subject of while cuffed to a convenient bed. He noticed my discomfort and a cruel sneer curled his thin lips.

  
“Now now, Damien,” the other man admonished, putting a hand on the guy’s arm. “You know we can’t go around selling used goods.” He smiled, his unnaturally white teeth glinting.

  
Damien ran his eyes up and down my body. “I suppose you’re right,” he sighed regretfully, but not before stroking a hand down my leg in a _very_ unwelcome gesture. I snarled through the gag and kicked out at him, but the cuffs around my ankle prevented me from moving more than a few inches. A lough burst out of Damien’s wide chest at my puny attempt. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fighter this time, eh Cole? The customers are gonna be drooling all over him!”

  
Cole’s earring sparkled in the light as he grinned slyly. “We haven’t found one like him in years.” He put a hand on my chin, turning my head from side to side like he was examining a prize horse. I jerked my head away, but he just absentmindedly tightened his grip. “I’m thinking with a face like this, he’ll only be affordable to the wealthier buyers. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  
Damien said something in reply, but I took no notice. My mind was reeling. They were planning on selling me? For what? The way they talked, all the subtle innuendos about their customers had an answer flitting through my head, but I shoved it away. There was no way in hell I was going to let that happen. Instead I concentrated on Dean. I was never gonna hear the end of it for getting kidnapped by _humans_ , and not even hunters at that! Dad was gonna be so pissed.

  
“...start looking around for buyers in the morning.” My attention snapped back to the conversation as I caught the end of the sentence. Both men were looking at me like they were wolves and I was a lamb they were about to devour. I repressed a shudder and stared back at them, fury and hatred burning in my gaze. I would not show any weakness to them. Cole smiled patronizingly at my expression, as though I was a child demanding another cookie, or other such crap. I wished my hands were free so I could pound his smirk to a bloody pulp. _See if you smile then_ , I thought viciously.

  
Cole ignored the waves of rage coming off me, and stroked a hand down my cheek in a parody of affection. “Glare away boy,” he murmured. “Your little rebellious streak will be gone soon enough. I’m sure your owner will train you up nice and good.” He turned and followed his companion out the room, closing the door and leaving me alone in the dark once again. I wrenched at the cuffs, twisting my hands desperately to slip them through the narrow space, but they were as tight as ever. I was so fucked.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

Two days earlier:

 

“Dean I told you, I had to stay late to finish a project!” I snapped into the phone, the heavy school doors slamming closed behind me as I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun.

“Yeah, well, Dad doesn’t care!  You were supposed to come help with research when school got out, and now he’s pissed!” Dean replied, his voice laced with annoyance.

    “Dude, I left you both messages, and what difference is a half an hour gonna make?”

“God Sam, you always do this!  It matters, okay?  Just, hurry up and get over here.”

“Yeah, fine.  Whatever,” I said shortly, and closed the phone on anything he might have said next.  I shoved it back into my pocket and balled my hands into fists, breathing heavily through my nose. _It wasn’t like I planned to stay later_ , I growled to myself, stomping down the sidewalk.  Although, if I was being honest,  I hadn’t actually needed to finish a project.  But there was no way in hell I was telling Dean, or Dad, that the real reason I stayed late was so my teacher could help me with college prep.   Especially not Dad.  Whenever I brought up the subject at home, it inevitably ended up collapsing into a violent shouting match that shook the paper thin walls of our current derelict motel.  I was sick of trying to explain myself to him.  He would never understand how I wanted more from life than learning to draw a perfect devil’s trap, or figuring out the best approach to taking down a rampaging djinn.  He was so wrapped up in his obsessive hunt for mom’s killer that he couldn’t even comprehend the fact that I didn’t want to live this way.  At least he had once had a normal, monster-free life.  He had gone home to a real house, eaten something other than hot pockets for breakfast every morning.  And Dean had too, if only for a short time.  They knew what it was like, but I never had the chance to see for myself, and they just didn’t seem to get that.

I continued ranting on to myself, ignoring the obscenely beautiful day.  If I had cared to notice, the soft breeze would have brought a smile to my glowering lips as it played through my hair.  The hot sunlight would have made me stretch my arms out in lazy enjoyment, letting the golden shafts whisper across my skin and soak into my bones.  The sky was a blinding blue, and the bright rays of sun touched each leaf and blade of grass so that they glowed a vivid green.  The very air seemed to thrum with life.  Even the cracked road and battered brick buildings looked somehow more welcoming than usual.  But I was in no mood to appreciate any of this.  Instead, I strode briskly away from the school, almost shattering the sidewalk under my feet with waves of frustration as I passed.  Maybe if I had been a little more observant, I would have noticed the two sets of eyes keenly watching me from across the street.

 

* * *

 

 

Cole had his feet propped up on the table, drowsily sipping a mug of watery coffee.  He grimaced at the taste, and idly turned a page of the newspaper balanced on his lap.  The seedy cafe front was almost empty.  The uncomfortable metal chairs scattered half-hazardly between rickety tables, the dark foreboding windows, and the faded lettering over the door didn’t exactly advertise a friendly atmosphere.  The paint on the door was peeling, and the bricks seemed on the verge of crumbling at any given moment.  All and all, the entire place looked like it could keel over into a pile of rubble given the slightest excuse.  

Cole swirled the dregs of his coffee, scowling.  He despised this place.  The desolate air that seemed to permeate the air around it always made him jittery.  Even the birds didn’t deign to investigate for crumbs under the abandoned chairs.  Its only advantage was the viewpoint it provided.  The high school was only two blocks down, making the rundown building the perfect place to discreetly scope out potential inventory.  

That was what he called them now, inventory.  When he had first entered the business, Cole would refer to the products as people- boys mostly.  Girls never seemed to sell as quickly.  But over time they stopped being “people” and became things, after the guilt started to be too much.   

But he was over such nonsense now.  Looking back at that time, he scoffed at his own naivety.  Cole readjusted the paper from where it was slipping down his legs, and gave a bored sigh.  The rush of kids parading past the cafe had slowed considerably, and at this hour the street was almost entirely vacant.  Now, after classes had ended but before the various sports teams and clubs had finished doing whatever it was they did, Cole had nothing to do but count the cracks spider webbing across the pavement.

The bell over the cafe door jangled weakly.  Damien stepped out into the warm autumn air, his own mug of coffee held loosely in his hand and a gently smoking cigarette dangling from his lips.  Cole grinned fondly at the disgruntled expression on his face.  They were an unlikely pair to be sure.  Damien was loud, impatient, and possessed a crass disposition that often led to a violent fistfight or two.  Most people couldn’t stand his abrasive personality.  Conversely, Cole was quieter, more reserved, and by far the more people-friendly of the two.  Usually, he was the one who had to do a spot of fast talking to stop Damien being knifed in a particularly intense bar brawl.  He was the calm, collected one, while Damien’s fuse was a tad short for his own good.  In the bumpy beginnings of their partnership, Damien had even had a small crush on him until Cole firmly told him that he did not play for his team.  For all that though, they were fast friends.

Damien pulled out a chair next to Cole and took a sip of his bitter coffee, his nose wrinkling distastefully.  Cole glanced at him briefly, then turned back to his newspaper, keeping one eye on the street.  Beside him, Damien fidgeted restlessly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.  After a moment he slurped at his coffee loudly, tapping his foot against the ground.  God the man was annoying at times.  Cole reigned in his irritation with difficulty and did his best to ignore him.

They sat like this for two minutes at most before Damien slammed his cup down on the table, spilling gray coffee everywhere, and declared, “this is pointless!  We’re not gonna find one today!”

“We have to be patient Damien,” Cole chided, turning another page.  “You know as well as I do that this is the best place we can be.”

Damien snorted derisively.  “We’ve looked through these kids a dozen times, and haven’t found one worth selling.  Let’s just move on already!  It’s not like there aren’t a trillion other kids out there!”

“It’ll take too long to find another town,” Cole pointed out.  “We need one soon.  Really soon, or Julien will have both our asses.  We haven’t made a sale in over a month.”

“Julien can go to hell,” Damien retorted.  “I’m sick of answering to that arrogant bastard.”

“I would take a little more care with my words if I were you,” Cole warned quietly.  “If he thinks you’re challenging him...”

“He doesn’t scare me!  We should’ve stopped taking his shit years ago!”

Cole just shook his head, tuning the other man out.  He was used to Damien’s rants about their employer, and knew he wouldn’t shut up for at least twenty minutes once he got going.  Besides, Cole knew Damien would never seriously try to confront Julien.  They needed him, much as Cole hated to admit it.  He didn’t like the guy any more than Damien, but Julien was invaluable when it came to finding clients.  Cole had no idea where he found so many rich, sadistic men, and frankly he didn’t care.  He supplied the product, and Julien supplied the customer.  As long as he was paid, Cole didn’t concern himself with what happened to the kids after they were sold.  It was strictly business.

“...fine.  Whatever.”  An angry voice broke Cole out of his thoughts, and he looked up.  Across the street, a kid no more than sixteen or seventeen was shoving a phone back into his pocket, a peeved expression on his face.  Cole’s eyes widened ever so slightly.  For his normally completely stoic features, it was the equivalent of his jaw hitting the floor.  The kid was fucking gorgeous.

Even from this distance, Cole could make out the strong line of his jaw, the lithe movement as he pushed a strand of caramel-colored hair out of his face.  The plain shirt he was wearing displayed his tanned, wiry arms, and Cole was willing to bet the rest of him was just as muscular.  As he walked by, Cole was mesmerized by how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, so unlike most adolescents his age.  Even the scowl darkening his features didn’t detract from his looks.

A shark-like grin broke out across Cole’s face.  He turned to Damien, only to find him still muttering resentfully, mostly Julien’s name punctuated by an impressive stream of cussing.  Cole rolled his eyes.  “Damien,” he said exasperated, halting his friend’s tirade.

“What?” came the clipped response.  Cole jerked his head towards the kid.  Damien frowned and scanned the street, freezing when his eyes fell on the boy.  Then he smiled, and it was remarkable how many teeth he could show in that one gesture.

“You want this part?” Cole questioned.

Damien stood, smirking.  “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

Cole watched him disappear down the street after the kid, and took another gulp of lukewarm coffee.  The pages of his newspaper rustled as he set them aside and rose to his feet, brushing dust off his jeans.  He had preparations to make.

 

* * *

 

 

“I told you to come home right after school Sam!”

_Yeah, my day was good Dad.  Thanks for asking_ , I thought sourly, dropping my backpack by the door.

“You were supposed to help us with research!” Dad snapped.  He was standing by the crappy motel fridge, a freshly opened beer bottle in his hand, and at the moment his eyes were flashing dangerously.

“I told you, I had to finish up a project!” I said defensively, crossing the small room to sink onto the bed Dean and I shared.  “It hasn’t even been an hour!”

“We had to start without you!” Dad glared, gesturing to the other bed, where books and papers were strewn messily across the blankets, looking like a hurricane had just swept through them.  “We would’ve made a lot more progress if you had just followed orders!”

“Oh, excuse me for screwing up your precious hunt!  I forgot that’s the only thing you care about!” I shot back.  A slight twinge of regret resonated within me at the hurt look on Dad’s face.  Our fights almost never escalated this quickly.

“Don’t you dare imply that I don’t love you or your brother!  Everything I do is to keep you boys safe!”

The guilt disappeared, and I laughed bitterly.  “Well that’s just crap Dad!  Keep telling yourself that!  But it’s pretty damn obvious to me the hunt is all that matters!  Finding Mom’s killer, right?  You care a hell of a lot more about that than you’ve ever cared about us!”

For a minute I thought he might actually hit me, and I braced myself against his palpable rage.  However, before he could answer- or whip out his gun and shoot me- the motel door opened and Dean entered, carrying a couple of takeout bags.  The tension in the room struck him like a slap in the face, and he looked from Dad to me, then back again.  I could almost see the cogs in his brain churning, trying to think of a stupid joke that would break the awkward, hostile silence.  A moment passed before I decided to spare him the trouble by getting up and storming over to the bathroom, tossing a curt, “I’m taking a shower” over my shoulder, and slamming the door behind me.

I glowered at my reflection in the cracked mirror, then stripped off my clothes, hearing a soft murmur of conversation from the other room.  Fresh rage exploded in my chest as I turned the shower knobs, waiting for the cascade of water to heat up.   _They’re probably talking about me_ , I thought savagely.   _Dad’ll be complaining about how I can’t take orders like a good little soldier.  How I’ll never be good enough for him.  And Dean will probably say “he didn’t mean it.  Give him time to cool down,” or some other crap like that, but in the end he’ll go along with whatever Dad says.  Just like always._

I slipped under the spray of tepid water, trying to imagine that it was washing away all my frustration.  But the longer I thought about Dad, the harder I had to clench my fists to keep from punching a hole through the stained tile wall.  I stood there for awhile, wrestling my anger back under control.  The steady drum of water filled my ears, slowly helping to settle my nerves.  When I finally felt like I wouldn’t wreck the hotel room if I faced Dad again, I shut the water off and quickly rubbed a scratchy towel over my wet skin.

A cloud of steam billowed out before me as I opened the bathroom door, the towel now wrapped snuggly around my waist.  Dad was nowhere to be seen, probably skipped to the bar down the street, but Dean was sitting on a sagging chair in the corner, channel-surfing like a pro on the ancient T.V. set that flickered to static every few seconds.  The sound of the door shutting caused his head to jerk around, but I disregarded the reproachful look he gave me and shuffled over to our bed.

“Sammy,” he began quietly.

“I don’t want to hear it Dean,” I interrupted, pulling a set of pajamas from my duffle.  

He plowed on despite my warning tone.  “I just don’t see why you have to fight the man on every little thing!”

I turned my back on him and tugged my t-shirt over my still damp torso.  When it became clear I wasn’t going to answer, Dean huffed, irked, and went back to flipping between _The Great Escape_ and some old western movie.  

The rest of the night passed in strained silence.  I ate the chinese takeout Dean had brought, then sat on my bed to start working on my book report on _The Sun Also Rises_.

Dean finished his western and stood, stretching luxuriously.  I heard him start getting ready for bed and put my book down, fighting to keep my face straight.  Dean had no idea, but retribution was about to be delivered.  I had snagged some of the capsaicin we had been working with in science, and now it’s about to be used for some much needed payback.  There was a squeak of the faucet turning on, then the gush of water.  I bit my lip, shaking with suppressed laughter.

I didn’t have to wait long.  After only a few minutes, a strangled “SONUVABITCH!” burst from the bathroom, and Dean lumbered out, spluttering, and brandishing his mouthwash before him like a sword.  The look on his face crumbled my fragile control, and I dissolved into howling laughter.  “What the hell did you do Sam!” Dean shouted.  Or tried to.  The effect was somewhat ruined by the tears streaming down his face, which was contorted in pain.  

My ribs aching, I gasped out, “revenge... is so...”  I paused to giggle.  “So sweet!”

Dean’s watery glare only set me off again.  My laughter followed him as he growled and stomped off to rinse his mouth.  By the time he returned I had quieted down some, although the occasional chuckle still broke through now and then.

“What the hell did you put in my mouthwash!” Dean demanded, looming over me threateningly.

I smirked, and instead of replying, said “that was for painting my face like a clown while I was sleeping.”

Dean grinned.  “One of your finest moments.  I should have recorded it when you first looked in the mirror.”  He tumbled onto the bed next to me and lay down while I put my book report on the floor and switched off the light.  My eyes closed, and I was almost asleep when a I heard an almost inaudible “bitch” from beside me.

“Jerk,” I whispered back, but smiled all the same.

 

* * *

 

 

It was going on eleven thirty when Cole’s phone finally rang.  Eagerly, he flipped it open.  “Yes?”

“He’s staying at the Briar Rose motel,” Damien said, never one to waste time with pleasantries.  “As far as I can tell there’s a father and a brother.  But we gotta be careful on the one.  The dad looks like an ex-military type.”  

Cole raised an eyebrow.  “Since when has that ever given you pause?” he asked, slightly amused.  “Going soft on me already?”

“Shut up,” Damien snapped.”  There’s just something about the guy.  He looks like the type you wouldn’t wanna meet down a dark alley.  Or any alley for that matter.”

Cole shook his head.  “Well it shouldn’t be too big of an issue.  With the face he’s got we’ll be able to sell him within a couple of days.  Then he’ll be long gone and we’ll be halfway across the country.”

“Alright,” Damien grunted.  “I’m all done here.  You got everything ready?”

“Don’t I always?  Now get back to the apartment.  We’ve got a fun day tomorrow.”

 


	3. Chapter Three

Captivity, I decided, was boring.  There’s the initial surge of mind-numbing panic, where fear bubbles up under your diaphragm and all you can think of is that you need to _move_ , but the freaking cuffs won’t budge and hyperventilating is looking more and more appealing.  Then comes the inevitable escape plans, each more outlandish than the last (one of mine was to possibly get a rat to chew through the handcuffs.  In hindsight I blame the lingering effects of the drugs for that one.), but after you’ve exhausted all your crazy schemes, there’s really nothing to do but wait.  

I thought about Dean and Dad.  They probably noticed I’m gone by now, right?  It’s been long enough for them to realize something’s wrong, though its hard to tell how much time has passed from the lack of lighting in my small prison.  I entertained myself for a time by imagining all the ways they could bust in here to rescue me.  Most involved explosions.

But past that my attention wandered.  For an irrational couple of moments I remembered the book report I hadn’t finished and freaked out.  Mrs. Stevens was going to skin me alive when I came to class without it.  Of course, she’d most likely have to wait for Dad to finish with me to get her turn, and by then there wouldn’t be much left to work with.  Dad was going to be so pissed that I got myself kidnapped _again_.  It wasn’t my fault that every crazy, messed up thing, supernatural or otherwise, was drawn to me like I was a friggin’ magnet!  I guess life just gets its kicks screwing me over.

But I could only rage at the injustice of the world for so long.  Eventually I moved on the other things.  I tried playing _I Spy_ , but that was unsurprisingly short lived.   Turns out it’s hard to play by yourself when the only things in sight are walls and a dingy bed.  

Time is funny in the dark.  I had no way to tell how long I had been there, whether it was night or day.  I had never considered myself claustrophobic, but the shadows pressing in on every side made me feel as though the walls were closing in.  I was desperate to take my mind off the oppressive, unending twilight.  Eventually, I ended up naming every supernatural monster I could think of in alphabetical order, along with their strengths and the best way to waste them.  I was on shapeshifter when the single door opened, sending a blinding shaft of light across my face.

I looked up, trying to glare and squint at the same time.   _Yeah, real intimidating Sam._  I blinked a few times, and finally made out two figures standing in the doorway.  The one on the right was Damien, brawny and sullen as ever.  It seemed to be his default expression.  The man on the left was new to me.  He wasn’t much to look at.  Average height and build, though maybe a little on the lanky side.  His hair was blonde like Damien’s, but longer, and just a couple shades darker.  He was the type of guy you never really _saw_.  Your gaze simply slid over him, because he was so ordinary looking, and as such did not warrant any attention.

Even as I sized him up, he stared openly back, running his eyes critically over my entire body.  When he finished he leaned back, a grin passing over his face, and clapped Damien soundly on the shoulder.  It didn’t escape my notice how Damien tensed almost imperceptible at the gesture.

“You boys have outdone yourselves!” the other man exclaimed, missing Damien’s momentary hostile glower.  He crossed the room to examine me more closely, reaching out to finger my hair.  I pulled back sharply and made a threatening rumble deep in my throat, glaring daggers at the man.  He paused, letting his hand drop, and glanced back behind him to where Damien was still leaning apathetically against the doorjamb.  “You’ve got yourself a fighter here.”

Damien merely grunted.

“Still,” the other man continued thoughtfully.  “We can work that to our advantage.  Plenty of buyers prefer to break their purchases themselves.”  His eyes took on a faraway look.  “I think I know just who to call.”  He turned back to Damien.  “You should get him cleaned up.  He’ll need to look his best for-”

Damien cut him off impatiently.  “Christ, Julien I know how to do my damn job!  Go do your own.”

Julien huffed skeptically, but strode out of the room without further comment.  Damien shot me a last glance, then followed.

 

* * *

 

The next time the door opened, I had just moved on from deciding the worst medieval torture- it was a toss up between the rack and having rats chew their way through your stomach- to deciding which superpower would be best.  I was weighing time travel against telekinesis when the hinges squeaked and light flooded the room.  I barely had time to raise my head before I felt the cuff on my left hand click open.

Without thinking I lashed out, aiming to where I figured the person’s head must be.  My fist collided with something soft, and I was rewarded by a yelp and a curse.  Sadly, my satisfaction was fleeting.  Not a second passed before I was backhanded soundly across the face.  To make it worse, whoever it was had a ring on, and it carved a bloody trail over my cheek.  Fingers dug painfully into my jaw and jerked my head around until I was staring into Damien’s furious eyes, inches from my own.  A bruise was already darkening around his right cheekbone.

“If you ever do that again,” he breathed, in a frighteningly low voice, “you won’t get off with just this.”  He touched the shallow cut, from where a thin trickle of blood oozed sluggishly.  “Plenty of people will still pay for you, damaged or not.”  He released me, and swiftly cuffed my hands together before unlocking the one tethering my right wrist to the headboard.  Seriously, how many pairs of handcuffs did these guys own?

Damien freed my feet as well and yanked me roughly off the bed.  I stumbled as my legs took the unexpected weight.  Man, how long had I been lying there?  More than a day?  More than two?  I couldn’t stop to wonder, because Damien had wrapped an iron hand around my bicep and was dragging me out of the cramped room.

We marched down a dirty hallway, and I took the chance to examine the rest of the apartment.  It was pretty much what I had expected.  The plaster walls were flaking, so stained with smoke and water that they were barely even white anymore.  The floors were made of scuffed wood that screeched in protest at every step.  There were only three doors lining the hall.  One lead to my tiny cell, but the other two were closed.  Damien shoved me over to the door on the left and opened it to reveal a decrepit bathroom.  Unceremoniously, I was manhandled over to the ancient shower and the chain linking my hands was looped over a hook hanging from the ceiling.  

Damien left me and crossed to a small crank close to the door.  As soon as he turned it, I felt the cuffs tighten around my wrists as the hook lifted higher.  Soon the chain connecting it to the ceiling was so short I had to stand on the very tips of my toes to relieve the pressure on my wrists.  Damien stepped back to admire his work and shot me a predatory leer.

“This is my favorite part,” he gloated, disappearing back down the hallway.  

The moment he was out of sight I struggled viciously with the cuffs.  My precarious position didn’t grant me much leverage, meaning that I couldn’t jump up to try to unhook my hands.  The scabs on my wrists cracked and blood started running down my arms.  Before I could try anything else, Damien was back, holding a pair of scissors.  My eyes widened and I wrenched furiously at the chains, which only added more gashes to my cut skin.

Tauntingly, Damien opened and closed the scissors, creating a “snip snip” that had me shuddering inwardly.  My gaze was riveted on the glittering blades.  A malicious little smile appeared on Damien’s face as he leisurely approached me, no doubt enjoying the trepidation on mine.  Bad decision.  As soon as he was within range I kicked out as hard as I could, and caught him solidly between the legs.  He collapsed with a yell.  I would have grinned triumphantly if that damn gag wasn’t still jammed in my mouth.  I had to settle with kicking at his head, but he rolled out of the way, barely avoiding the blow.  

Painfully it seemed, he pulled himself up using the cracked sink, and stood bent over slightly, holding his groin.  He recovered after much groaning, and looked up at me, livid.  He snatched up the scissors from where they had been dropped on the floor, and was on me before I could react.

A heavy fist pounded into my ribcage, and I let out a gasp.  Another drove into my solar plexus, expelling any remaining air from my lungs and making me gape like a landed fish.  While I was distracted trying to convince my lungs to work again, Damien took advantage and cut my shirt away, pricking my skin a couple times with the scissors for good measure.  The tattered shirt fell away, leaving me bare chested and hanging limply from the cuffs.  Damien paused to grin, taking in my lean abdomen, muscled from years of Dad’s arduous training.

“You just keep gettin’ better kid.”  He opened the scissors again, reaching for the waistband of my jeans.   _Oh_ Hell _no!_ I snarled to myself.  His fingers brushed across my hips, and I went wild, thrashing and squirming like a madman.    Damien rolled his eyes at my dramatics, but I then managed to throw a knee up, hitting him in his already sensitive family jewels.  A strangled sound escaped him, and he scrambled away, hands once again covering the tender area.  I fell still, chest heaving, and watched him warily while he nursed himself.  A steady stream of expletives spewed from him as he gradually straightened up.

“Fucking kid,” he spat at me, all sadistic humor gone.  “You’re lucky you’re gonna get us a shit ton of money.”  He slammed the scissors down on the sink and stormed out.  I had time to let out a breath of relief, then he was back, grasping something I couldn’t see in his hand.

I lashed out at him when he stepped towards me, but he batted my foot aside and pressed up against me, trapping my legs between us.  We glared at each other, and I realized that we were almost equal in height.  He noticed this as well and scowled darkly, apparently not enjoying the fact that he couldn’t loom over me.  I smirked, but then he lifted up what he had in his hand, and my stomach dropped.  A spark reappeared in Damien’s eye as I twisted frantically, feeling more blood seep down my wrists.  He let me struggle for a few moments, then reached up and slid the needle into my arm.  

Lethargy spread through my veins as he depressed the plunger.  My movements slowed, and it didn’t take long until I slumped against the cuffs, my muscles completely unresponsive.

Damien watched with blatant smugness, baring his teeth in a shameless leer when I finally went limp, eyes glazed.  Only then did he cup my cheek in his huge hand, giving me a derisive sneer when I made no attempt to pull away.

He picked up the scissors and cut away my jeans, throwing them aside.  By now I was clad only in my boxers, shivering slightly in the cool air.  He halted, lasciviously enjoying the view.  God, the guy needed a girlfriend.  Or boyfriend.  Whatever.  Point was, if he could only get someone’s clothes off was when they were tied up, he was doing something wrong.  I giggled at the thought.  I was so distracted I hardly noticed the gentle tugging at my hips.  I was brought sharply back to the present when my boxers were ripped away, and I was left hanging completely naked, unable to cover myself from Damien’s probing inspection.  

The drug hadn’t dimmed my wits as profoundly as last time.  While my mind was undeniably fuzzy, I was still aware enough to know what was happening.  Disgust and horror welled up inside me.  I tried weakly to, what?  Escape?  Lash out?  It didn’t matter.  It failed either way.

Damien hadn’t stopped grinning the entire time.  It was a wolfish smile, filled with far too many teeth.  It impossibly widened further as he leaned over and, with a squeak of rusty pipes, turned the shower on.  A frigid blast of water sprayed over me , immediately raising goosebumps on my skin and making me shiver harder than ever.  Had I been a little more coherent I would have yelped in surprise.

Then, to my complete revulsion, Damien pulled out a bar of soap.   _You have got to be fucking kidding me._  This guy _really_ need a boyfriend.  Girlfriend.  Whatever.  I just hoped whoever he could convince to date him was into the whole bdsm thing.  Not that it mattered right now.  With whatever he had injected me with making me docile as a sheep, I could only stand helplessly while he ran his hands up and down my skin.  And he was uncomfortably thorough.

He started at my arms, then quickly moved to my shoulders, tracing the contours of my collarbone and the smooth curve of my neck.  He lingered over the hard muscle ridging my abdomen, trailed a hand down the knobs of my spine.  His fingers danced patterns across my shoulder blades and ribs.  I could deal with it all, until he moved past my jutting hip bones to the area between my thighs.  

I couldn’t hold back the whimper that slipped out from behind the gag as he caressed me, which only seemed to encourage him.  He took an excruciatingly long time to move to the rest of my legs, savoring the occasional pathetic whine he induced, until he wasn’t even pretending to wash me and just touched me with greedy, lustful fingers.  I moaned pitifully, feebly shrinking away from him, and at last he resumed scrubbing down the rest of my body.

After the last sudsy lines were sluiced away, swirling lazily in the dirty pool at my feet before reluctantly vanishing into the spotted drain, Damien washed my hair, running his hands through my thick locks.  He finally shut the water off, briskly rubbing me down with a scratchy towel that felt more like wire than cloth and turned my skin bright pink.

“I hate to cover this up,” Damien mused, cupping a hand over my bare groin wistfully, ignoring my muffled sounds of protest.  He relented, taking his hand away thank God, and left to fetch an old pair of gray sweatpants.  My legs were too heavy for me to lift, so he had to help me into them, tugging them over my narrow waist.  

“Now,” Damien said, businesslike.  “I’m going to take out your gag, and you’re not going to make one sound, right?”  A gun had somehow appeared in his hand, pointing carelessly at my chest to emphasize his words.  I nodded, eyeing it charily.  The damp cloth was removed, leaving lines of chafed skin along both my cheeks.  I opened and closed my mouth, running my tongue along my teeth to rid them of the foul taste.

A cup of water was suddenly shoved in my face.  I flinched, and Damien sighed exasperatedly.  “Would you just drink?” he snapped.  “I’ve got things to do.”

He hadn’t released my hands from where they were suspended above me, so I had to tilt my head back while he placed the cup against my lips.  The water flowed deliciously down my dusty throat, better than any fancy drink.  I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until now.  I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had some water, though it must have been before they’d nabbed me.  How long ago was that?  Shouldn’t Dad and Dean have discovered I was missing?  What was taking them so long to find me?  I pushed those niggling doubts aside angrily.  They _would_ come.  They wouldn’t just abandon me.

Damien set the cup down and produced a bit of bread from somewhere.  I ate it obediently, even though it was hard and stale.  I didn’t have enough energy to rebel.  I swallowed the last crumbs, and Damien took out a camera of all things.  He snapped a couple of shots, turning my head this way and that for the best angle.  The harsh flashes of light made my eyes ache.  The drug still pumping through me, blurring my vision, didn’t help much either.

While I was blinking away the spots, Damien pulled out another gag and forced the material into my mouth, securing it like last time with another strip wrapped around my head.  Once he was done he unhooked my hands from the ceiling and lead me from the room.

Back down the same hallway, Damien half-carrying me when my legs decided that being made of marshmallow would be more fun.  He dumped me gracelessly on my narrow bed, my limbs flopping everywhere, and I watched through half-lidded eyes as he rechained me to the frame, letting out little grunts of annoyance at my uncooperative, deadweight appendages.   _Yeah_ , I thought hazily.   _That’s what you get.  Karma’s a bitch, dickwad._

Damien must have really been in a hurry because as soon as the last cuff snapped shut around my ankle he wasted no time in hastening out the door.  I was too tired to wonder why.  Sleep was beckoning me, its call amplified by the drug.  I let my eyelids drift closed.

My dreams were dark and confused.  Damien’s hands were on me again, groping and invasive.  I cried out for him to stop, yet when I looked up into his face it was not Damien above me, but Dean.

“Shh little brother, it’s okay,” he whispered to me.  “I’ll always protect you.”  He squeezed my groin painfully, smiling calmly down at me as I writhed and whimpered beneath him.

I woke with a gasp and a strangled yell, cold sweat beading my clammy skin.  The suffocating darkness pressed in heavily all around me.  A sob welled up in my throat, and for the first time I allowed the reality of the situation to set in.  The shadows around me grew, if possible, even blacker.  I felt the sinister ghost of my dream circling round me, and every fiber of my being ached for my brother.  A lone tear crept out from the corner of my eye, clinging to the lashes for the briefest of moments before tracking a salty line across my temple and falling gently to the grimy pillow.


	4. Chapter Four

Three days.  Three days of frantic worrying, of endless pacing that had him surprised there wasn’t a track worn in the motel carpet.  Three days of sleepless nights, long hours dragging by, his senses acutely aware that there was no warm body lying next to him on the bed.  Three days since Sam had disappeared, and for Dean, they had been three days straight from hell.

He had lost track of the number of times he had called Sam’s phone, only for it to go straight to voicemail.  Lost track of the number of leads they had tracked down, only for each one to dead-end.  The amount of coffee he had drunk those three days was verging on sickening.

That first night, when Sam hadn’t come home, hadn’t raised any undue alarm.  Dean was concerned, yes, and he hadn’t noticed Sam being any moodier than usual, but the kid was an expert at hiding his feelings if he really wanted to.  Dean had chalked up his absence to a lingering resentment towards John from the fight the night before.  It wasn’t the first time he had stayed out late, brooding.  Both Dean and John had called him of course, but concluded that he was just blowing them off.  Needless to say, John had been furious at his son’s recalcitrance.

Even so, Dean couldn’t shake the uneasy suspicion that it was something more than spite on Sam’s part.  This had only worsened throughout the night, finally confirmed when he woke up the next morning to find Sam’s side of the bed cold and conspicuously vacant.  The fear Dean had felt then, staring at the distinctly unrumpled sheets, had lodged deep in his bones and hadn’t left since.  Even now, it lurked quietly in the back of his mind, waiting for him to drop his guard so it could overwhelm him like the first moment he realized Sam was missing.

It would happen when he least expected it.  One minute he would be thanking Sam’s teacher for his assistance- which was useless as always.  Apparently Sam had disappeared after school let out- and the next he would be doubled over, clutching the desk for support as waves of terror crashed over him, his heart stuttering in his chest and his breaths coming in short, painful gasps.

When the episode finally passed, he would be left coated in a thin sheen of clammy sweat while his hands trembled uncontrollably.

If he seemed to be losing his mind, by contrast John had slipped into “super-powered hunter” mode.  The intensity with which he threw himself into their search almost frightened Dean.  He had talked to so many people, checked so many leads it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out from sheer exhaustion.  

His tempter had also shortened dramatically, probably due to a combination of sleep deprivation, anxiety, and the copious amounts of liquor he was now consuming.  Much as Dean pretended otherwise, it was hard to ignore the staggering amount John was drinking daily.  The beer cans and whiskey bottles he had gone through was reaching heights that made Dean seriously concerned for the man’s liver.  

Even more surprising was the fact that John wasn’t a drunken mess.  On the contrary, Dean didn’t think John had ever been more focused.  The closest Dean had seen his father like this, were those half-remembered days in the weeks after the fire that killed Mary.  Dean had a sneaking feeling that if they didn’t find Sam soon it would kill them both.

Dean ran his hands through his short hair and glanced again at the clock hanging on the wall.  He had just gotten back to the motel after searching Sam’s school from top to bottom for any signs of demon, ghost, shapeshifter, or otherwise supernatural activity, and had come up with a steaming pile of squat.  He was sitting on his bed, waiting for John to get back from the police station, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts.  And they were anything but pleasant.

Since the morning Sam vanished, he had been unable to stop the persistent stream of scenarios that sprang up at any mention of his absent brother.  That he had run away Dean discarded almost immediately.  The fight with John hadn’t been too upsetting by their standards.  It wouldn’t drive him to leave.  They had been through worse hundreds of times, and Sam always returned by nightfall, no matter how violent the argument.  But if he hadn’t left willingly, the alternatives were far worse.

The number of things that could have taken Sam was daunting, and none of them good.  The image of a cloud of ebony smoke cramming itself down Sam’s throat flashed in front of his eyes.  Sam’s mouth was stretched wide in a scream, and when the last of the smoke vanished inside him, he smiled wickedly, opening eyes black as- _No!_  Angrily, Dean shoved the horrifying picture out of his mind.  That would _not_ happen to his little brother, not while he was around.  He would die before he let anything happen to Sam, and he was getting him back alive, no matter what.

The tinny sound of Deep Purple echoed through the otherwise soundless room.  Morbid thoughts discarded, Dean dove across the bed to where his jacket was lying, crumpled on the sheets where he had tossed it.  There were a couple moments of inelegant scrambling, until he finally managed to extricate his phone, hope bursting inside him.  But it wasn’t Sam’s name flashing up at him.  His disappointment was tangible as he opened it and put it to his ear.  “Did the police have anything?”

“No,” came John’s curt response.  Dean’s heart sank.  “But I might have found someone who does.”

Dean sat bolt upright.  “Are you sure?  What happened?”

“Just get over to the police station.  I’ll explain when you get here.”

A click and a droning buzz ended the conversation before Dean could answer.  He stared at the phone, and for the first time he understood how Sam felt.  As much as he admired John, the way he treated his son’s, demanding unquestioning obedience, was something that had never bothered him before.  He knew it was necessary, that in their line of work there was no time for explanations, when every second of hesitation could signal death, but now?  When it was his little brother in danger and John might know what had happened?

The unfamiliar rebellion confused Dean.  He was the good son, and he wasn’t sure he liked the new feelings provoked within him.  But, as he told himself, brooding was Sam’s style, not his.  

So with the ease born of practice, he swept his misgivings aside, snatched up his jacket, and hurried out the door.  After all, he had a pain-in-the-ass little brother to save.

 

* * *

 

John snapped the phone shut and turned to face the short blond woman standing patiently by the front desk of the police station.

“Ms. Lewis?” he called, bringing her attention around to focus on him.  “I told my partner to come over.  Do you think you could wait until he gets here before you tell me the full story?”

She smiled at him, dimples standing out on her cheeks.  “Of course Agent Thompson.  Anything I can do to help.”

“Thank you.  I apologise for the inconvenience,” John said gruffly, effortlessly transitioning into his government demeanor.

She winked at him, and he could have sworn that her gaze travelled down his body before lowering herself into one of the hard backed chairs lining the reception area.   _Was I just... Checked out?_ John thought, flustered.  He hadn’t partaken of that certain activity in years, since Mary died.  Ms. Lewis was certainly pretty, but just considering it brought back the painful memories of his wife, effectively killing any attraction he held towards the woman.  Even the brief thought of Mary was like pouring salt on an already festering wound.  So he chose to brush off the suggestive glances she sent him, and leaned up against the wall, listening for the unmistakable growl of the Impala.

It was an incredible stroke of luck that he had stumbled across the petite woman.  He had gone to the police station, doubtful that they could help but desperate enough to try.  As he’d suspected, the venture had been fruitless, but Ms. Lewis, who had come down to report a case of arson near her house, had overheard him describing Sam and interjected, remembering a similar boy passing by her store the day he vanished.  When John showed her a picture kept in his wallet, of his two boys grinning idiotically at the camera, lounging on the hood of the Impala, she confirmed that it had indeed been Sam.

Bursting with excitement at their first solid lead, John had restrained himself from interrogating her there and then, well aware that Dean would tear him a new one if he investigated without him.  It took more self-control than he would have guessed he had to call Dean and force himself to be patient.

By the time the Impala swung, gleaming and black, into the parking space next to John’s massive truck, he was ready to tear his hair out from the mixture of pent-up stress at the delay, and discomfort owing to the dewy eyes Ms. Lewis kept directing at him.

Dean leapt out of the car, wind whipping desiccating twigs and leaves into his face.  He took the steps up to the station three at a time and wrenched the door open, wind swirling around the room until he shut it firmly behind him.

“Agent Morris,” John said quickly, motioning for Dean to join him.  “This is Jennifer Lewis.  She recalls seeing Sam the day he disappeared.”  John pretended not to notice the way Dean flinched.  By unspoken agreement, both Winchesters had avoided using words like “death”, “kidnapped”, or others similar, as though voicing them would make it real, as cliché as that was.

Dean recovered hastily and held out his hand for the woman to shake.  She took it, eyebrows furrowed.

“Aren’t you a little young for the FBI?” she asked curiously.

“Ah, thank you for the compliment,” he answered, deftly sidestepping the question.  “Ms. Lewis,” John stepped in, cutting her off as she opened her mouth to inquire further.  “Could you tell us when and where you saw Sam?”

“Well, it couldn’t have been later than four o’clock,” she began, crossing her legs, her skirt somehow hitching up a couple of inches with the action, revealing a swathe of creamy thigh.  She peeked up at John through her lashes, checking his response, and combed fingers through her thick hair suggestively.

“I was just going over some paperwork when I heard arguing from outside.  That boy and another man were discussing something- I don’t know what.  But I didn’t get much past that.  I had to grab something from the other room, and by the time I came back both of them were gone.”

“Do you remember what the other man looked like?” John asked sharply.

She shifted, the skirt losing yet more length, and smiled at him with dazzling white teeth.  “I’m sorry, I don’t.  But I have something better,” she almost purred.  “We keep camera’s around the shop, in case of a robbery.  We aren’t situated in a very nice part of town, and it’s not uncommon.  But I’m sure I could give you a copy of our tapes.”

“That’d be great!” Dean exclaimed, face lighting up.  She deigned him with a dismissive look before addressing John in a provocative voice.

“You could come over to my office so I could give them to you.  It’s really not far...”

John had no doubt that the last thing on her mind was giving him the surveillance tapes.  “Umm, actually we have other business we need to attend to,” he lied promptly, wishing she would stop undressing him with her eyes in such an aggressive manner.  And where had the woman’s skirt gone?  ‘Cause there was no way in hell that miniscule strip of fabric across her hips classified as a _belt_ let alone a full-on piece of clothing.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Maybe it would just be easier for you to email them to us?”

She pushed her lips out in a pout.  “Are you sure?  We can make it quick.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but we really should get going,” John rushed, doing his best to ignore Dean’s expression.  He handed her his card with him email scrawled on the back.  Her fingers lingered on his hand longer than necessary as she accepted it.

“Well if you ever need my statement or something,” she took a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down a number before standing on tiptoe to tuck it into his shirt pocket.  “Feel free to call me.  I’d love to help in any way I can.”  John had a feeling the help she was offering didn’t have much to do with the case.

“Ah, right.  I’ll do that,” he said, backpedaling hastily to make her hand drop from where it was resting on his chest.  She gave him one last seductive look and sashayed out the door, not even bothering to acknowledge Dean as she left.

“Excuse me while I burn my eyes out,” Dean gagged as soon as she was gone.

“Watch your tongue boy!” John barked, trying to hide his reddening face.  

Dean merely snorted.  “Come on Rhett.  Lets get you out of here before Miss Scarlett comes back and tries to rip your clothes off again.”

 

* * *

 

“Well that was fast,” John commented, clicking on the email.

“Whoa, wait!” Dean cried in a mock serious tone.  “Make sure those are from the surveillance camera.  ‘Cause if those are a naughty little gift from her to you, I’d rather not be in the room when you watch ‘em.”  John shot him a glare that was met by an cheeky grin.  Fortunately for Dean, his father had more pressing matters than drilling some discipline into his son’s smart mouth.  

He turned back to the email, and Dean crowded close in behind to see, all joking forgotten.

The old computer was slow to load.  Dean cursed the small bar at the bottom of the screen, where the numbers _27% loaded_ quivered tauntingly.  He looked away, breathing harder than necessary, and fidgeting restlessly from foot to foot.  He could imagine that damned saying “a watched pot never boils” laughing its ass off at him.  He kept his gaze away from the screen for an excruciating couple of seconds until he couldn’t stand it any longer and checked the display.

_32% loaded._

It took a disproportionate amount of effort not to put his fist through the peeling wallpaper.

An apprehensive stillness settled over the room.  John was staring unblinkingly at the screen, his expression unreadable.  Dean was finding it hard just to breathe. Now that the moment was so close, he suddenly found he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what was on the video.  What if Sam was dead, or worse?

His imagination jumped into overdrive, and he found himself looking on, tormented by the sight of a werewolf slashing a claw across Sam’s stomach, easily shredding the skin and muscle, spilling glistening entrails all over the-

“Dean,” A hand waved in front of his face.  “You alright?”

Dean blinked, the macabre image slow to fade.  “Huh?”

“Are you alright?” John repeated, a look of concern creeping into his eyes.

“Wha- yeah, I’m fine!” Dean dismissed the question impatiently.  No way was he gonna break down in front of his father.  To his gratification, the computer let out a shrill beep, cutting short the disbelieving look John sent him.

Both men leaned closer to the screen as a picture formed.  It was a simple shot of the sidewalk fronting the store, canted slightly to the left so that a wedge of street was visible, cutting diagonally across the top edge of the image.  At the far left was a sliver of what appeared to be an alley running along the side of the building.  The time at the bottom right read “8:15 a.m.”

“She said it was just before four.”  Dean’s voice came out raspy, and harsher than he intended.  John tapped the fast forward button, and an agonizing minute passed while people scurried jerkily back and forth across the screen.

At “3:42 p.m.” John pressed play, and without intending to, Dean held his breath.  A car rumbled by on the slice of road, the engine a quiet, high-pitched whine on the video.  Seconds ticked by, the shopfront remaining empty, and Dean was about ready to throw the computer across the room from the damn suspense, when a figure with long, brown hair stepped into view from the right side of the screen.  Dean stiffened, and gripped the back of John’s chair, drinking in the sight of his little brother.

Sam’s head was down, bangs flopping into his eyes as usual, and his hands were hooked onto the straps of his backpack.  Another man entered the shot, walking in the opposite direction.  Dean studied him carefully, taking in the short, dirty blond hair, and arm sizes that boasted of far too many nights spent alone in the gym.  

As Sam and the man passed, their shoulders knocked together hard, causing them both to stagger sideways to regain their balance.  Dean’s eyes narrowed.  Something about the action seemed staged.  The wannabe Schwarzenegger whirled on Sam and yelled at him to watch where he was going.  At least, Dean assumed that’s what he said.  The cheap camera was too far away to pick up the fast-growing argument.

Sam shrugged apologetically, moth moving soundlessly, and turned away.  But Schwarzenegger was only getting started.  He grabbed ahold of Sam’s arm, spinning the boy back to face him.  A hard look came into Sam’s eyes, one that clearly said “get-your-hand-off-me-right-now-or-I’ll-break-it-off”.

What Sam obviously failed to notice was a third man that materialized suddenly from the shadows of the alley.  Dean could faintly make out an earring glittering from under a mess of dark hair.  

Schwarzenegger shouted something angrily into Sam’s face, keeping his attention firmly away from the guy now strolling with forced disinterest towards their little spat.  Sam’s back was towards Earring, so he missed the small nod he gave to Schwarzenegger before raising his arm and plunging a needle into Sam’s neck.

With reflexes Dean was proud of, Sam whipped around, tearing the needle out of Earring grasp.  His hand jumped to the spot and yanked it out reflexively, but Dean could tell it was already too late.  His legs had started to wobble, and as he tried to stumble away they gave out completely, sending him crashing to hands and knees.

Schwarzenegger darted forward and swiftly hoisted Sam to his feet, slinging an arm around his slim waist to support the boy as he sagged bonelessly against him.  Sam pushed at him woozily, but the strength had drained from his movements.  Earring produced another needle from his pocket, and within seconds of receiving the second injection, Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped unconscious into Schwarzenegger's arms.  

In one swift motion, he was tossed over the man’s broad shoulder and all three of them vanished into the gloom of the alley.  It was pulled off so quickly that the entire thing had taken less than two minutes.

Dean’s hands were clenched so tightly on the back of John’s chair that pins shot through his bloodless fingers as he forced them to uncurl.  A roaring filled his ears, blocking out all other sounds.  A red mist had settled over the room.  He didn’t know  who had taken his little brother, or why, but when he tracked them down he was going to make them appreciate the word suffering on a whole new level. The look of terror on Sam’s face just before he passed out was seared into his brain.

He stole a look at John, and the set of his face made Dean think that if the older man found them first, the kidnappers wouldn’t survive long enough for Dean to get his turn.


	5. Chapter Five

“Well, well well!” Footsteps thumped on the floor. They halted next to me, and I could feel the heat of their owner’s gaze burning into my skin. “I thought you might have been exaggerating, Cole. I’m glad to see you weren’t.”

I didn’t move, not even a twitch. I was used to this by now. A man would come, dripping with expectant enthusiasm, to poke and prod and examine me like a prize horse. They felt my arms, examined my teeth, and worst of all, inspected the area between my thighs. Generally, Cole would be with them, pointing out my unique eyes, or the toned quality of my abdomen. From what I could tell, Cole was the salesman of the duo, while Damien was the brawn that kept the kids from making a run for it. Julien, or whatever his name was, hadn’t reappeared since that brief first encounter.

“When did you acquire him?” The voice asked. I cracked an eye open, and a man’s face swam into view. He was leaning over me, scrutinizing the firm planes of my chest. I had been given no shirt since Damien sliced mine up with scissors, the dick. With the autumn fast fading to winter, it made the nights bitterly cold. I closed my eye.

Cole’s muffled reply sounded like a pillow had been pressed over his mouth, so distorted I couldn’t make it out. But this was normal now. These days I lived in a perpetual half-dream. When the first man had come, cocky and expectant, and tried to open my eyes himself to inspect them, I had broken his nose with my forehead. Damien had come close to fracturing all my ribs in his subsequent rage, and Cole decided it would be better to drug me when a prospective customer came in. After I pulled a nail from the wall behind me, picked the cuffs, and had a near escape through the living room window, only stopped in the nick of time by a furious Damien, they had come to the conclusion that I would be easier to handle if I was drugged all the time. I had so many puncture marks in my arm that I felt like a heroin addict.

“And how submissive did you say he was?” Ah, my hearing was back. It was beginning to get quite irritating, fading in and out like that.

“Well, we have him sedated for the moment...” Cole’s reply ebbed away as he spoke. Damn it. Maybe my ears were bipolar.

A hand stroked my hair, tangling in the soft strands, encouraging me to drowsily lift an eyelid. Two startlingly blue irises met my unfocused hazel one. I peered up at them, watching as they changed from a pure sky cerulean to a navy so dark it was almost black. They reminded me of a cave buried deep within the ocean, where the water was so cold not even algae dared grow there. _Huh_ , I thought, letting my eye drift shut. _Maybe it’s the drugs_.

His hand combed through my scalp, then left it to trace a line down my neck. Even drugged to the gills, my skin crawled at the touch. I mustered what energy I could gather and weakly rolled my head away, a whine of protest working its way past my gag, but the questing fingers followed me relentlessly.

The man spoke again, and I could hear the smile behind his words, although they melted away before I could make sense of them. His hand returned to my hair, brushing out the fine locks, and if I concentrated I could almost imagine it was Dean, comforting me like he had uncountable times in the past.

But it was a fragile illusion. Dean’s palms were strong and callused, more often than not smudged with gunpowder or motor oil. These were softer, the fingers longer and more slender. Their touch was not one of affection, but of possession.

These differences, so painfully obvious, made longing for my brother sing through my drugged veins. The absence of his steady presence hurt me more than I would admit. I missed his smile, his laugh. I missed the stupid jokes he always made, and the simple strength that I drew from him. More than once, I convinced myself I heard his angry voice out in the hallway, but it always turned out to be an empty dream. I couldn’t fathom what was taking him so long to find me. Wasn’t he worried? What if he didn’t want me back at all?

_Of course he wants me back_ , my rational side argued. _He_ will _come. I just have to be patient_. But as the days slipped by, I had to admit it was getting harder and harder to hold onto hope.

“...I do believe we can work out a deal. What are you asking in terms of price?”

The question didn’t register at first. I heard it, not really following the conversation. Then comprehension slammed down and I jerked towards the speaker, eyes snapping open. Adrenaline flooded me, momentarily subduing the effects of the drug, and I wrenched with renewed vigor at the ever-present cuffs. No way in _hell_ was some pervert gonna buy me!

But my strength was already waning, and I was sinking unwillingly back onto the mattress. My gaze darted from the man still standing over me, to Cole at the foot of the bed, a shrewd expression on the latter’s face.

My surge of lucidity lasted only long enough for me to see the glint of anticipation in the stranger’s eye as he watched me give a final tug at my restraints, and for Cole to say, “well, what we feel is most reasonable, considering his...” Then the drug swarmed over me with a vengeance. I struggled to stay conscious, but I must have blacked out, because the next time I dragged my eyelids open, Cole was standing alone in my cell, pocketing a sizeable wad of bills. _Fuck. That can’t be good_.

He looked up, as if sensing my sudden despair, and met my bleary gaze. I experienced an odd sense of dejá vu as he smiled at me, a satisfied tinge to the gesture. It could have been the first time I had awoken in this bed, disoriented and confused, with Cole clicking the last handcuff closed. Perhaps he felt it too, because he came over and stared down at me, an unreadable shadow passing over his features. It might have been uncertainty, but he was gone before I could be sure.

The door hadn’t been closed ten seconds when it flew open again, admitting an exuberant Damien, who bounded across the threshold grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, if it isn’t our latest sale!” he bayed, practically frolicking with delight. “You should’ve seen the offers we were gettin’ for you!” He laughed and fixed me with a mock thoughtful look, one finger tapping his nose and one eye squinted shut. “I knew you’d be in high demand. Seems like everyone’s dying to have a turn with you. ‘Course, with a body like that it’s not surprising.” He pressed a palm against my exposed stomach as though to prove his point. “I gotta say though, I’m gonna miss you. It’s a damn shame I never got to try you out myself.”

My handcuffs tinkled as they unlocked. Damien pocketed the keys and pulled me, unresisting, into a sitting position.

“Mmm, yeah, a damn shame,” he repeated, mostly to himself, nuzzling my neck when I folded bonelessly against him. “I bet you would’ve been unbelievable in bed.” I elbowed weakly at his ribs, repulsed by his touch and his words, but he easily turned it aside and chained my hands together.

I was in no condition to stand on my own, let alone walk, and this quickly became evident as Damien pulled me to my feet. Screw limbs of lead, it felt like I didn’t have any limbs at all. The dusty floor rushed up to meet me,and the only things that prevented me from a glorious face-plant were Damien’s hands catching my shoulders at the last second. He steadied me, but the moment he let go, my knees buckled and he was forced to dive forward again, supporting me with an arm around my waist.

He grumbled something about Cole and dosages, before bending and putting an arm under my legs. My stomach lurched nauseatingly, the walls tumbling around me as Damien scooped me into his arms, bridal-style. He smirked at me, cuddled against his broad chest with my head tucked snuggly under his collarbone, but I was too busy trying not to throw up to care. The shadows encroaching on the corners of my vision seized their chance. While I was distracted by my rebellious innards, they rose up like a black wave and swept me away, as Damien carried me from the room.

 

* * *

 

 

“...Is he ready yet? Weissman is itching to go, and his complaining is getting on my nerves.” Cole sounded ansty.

“He’s a touchy one, ain’t he?”

Wherever I was, it was dark. Hard ridges pressed against my side. Blindly, I reached out, and smooth wooden slats met my fingers. As my eyes adjusted, I made out slim bars of weak light filtering in through numerous cracks above me. _What?_ My fuddled mind flailed for an unnecessary amount of time before I could put two and two together. It was a crate. They had put me in a wooden crate.

My legs were curled up to fit, and it was so narrow I couldn’t wiggle around to lie on my back. My cuffed hands were bent uncomfortably in front of me, almost like a parody of prayer.

I felt someone kick the side. “I think we got everything. Let’s do this quick before anyone wakes up and wonders what the hell we’re doing.”

The crate shifted, and grunts of exertion came from both ends.

“Damn, he’s heavy for being so freaking skinny,” Damien joked. Cole uttered an indistinct noise of agreement, and I was lifted into the air. Though I couldn’t see beyond the wood in front of my face, I still felt vertigo rise within me at the sudden repositioning.

As if that wasn’t enough, Damien and Cole chose that moment to take a staggering lurch forwards. Oh God. I screwed my eyes shut, breathing deeply through my mouth, but the wobbly rhythm the two established wasn’t helping. In fact, it was doing a stellar job to convince my guts that they would be much happier painted on the side of the crate.

I was soothing them back into place when my head dipped alarmingly towards the floor. I thought one of the men must have dropped me before I realized we must be on a staircase.

This was confirmed when the crate jolted wildly, followed quickly by a bang and a curse from my feet.

“Ah, fuck!”

“Damien, _shut up!_ Do you _want_ people to come see what’s happening?”

“I slipped on the step! What prick leaves an opened condom lying around? I could have broken my neck!”

“At least if you were dead you’d be quiet for once! I’m sure your corpse wouldn’t make as much noise and wake up the entire building!”

“You try tripping over a used condom while carrying-”

“Would you just shut it? We can do this later!”

The whispered argument had me begging that someone had heard. Surely these walls weren’t thick enough to block out their hushed voices. But no one came. I should have expected as much. When had God ever paid attention to my prayers?

We moved off, down yet another flight of stairs, then a hallway, and finally the cool smells of fresh air washed over me for the first time in days.

The pale light that shuttered through the crate slats was that of early morning. Faint cries of birds echoed from far away, and the rare hum of a passing car seemed muted in the hushed silence. It was the hour on the cusp of time, not quite night, but not yet day either. The world was holding its breath, waiting for the sun to come and chase away the last shadows from the corners of the earth. Waiting for the stars to fade out one by one, relinquishing their position as the silent, twinkling sentinels of the sky for another day. I could just make out the purple clouds through a slim crack, gradually brightening to a light cream shot through with pink.

To me it was beautiful, precious. To others, it was the perfect time for nefarious business.

“Finally!” a man exclaimed. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here? I thought you people were supposed to be professionals. I have half a mind to-”

“We’re very sorry sir,” Cole sid smoothly, overriding the man’s continued criticisms. “Would you like it in the trunk?”

“Yes, yes,” the man grumbled. The crate was set down clumsily, and I strained to press my eye to the crack. Cole and Damien stood off to one side, Cole shaking the hand of a man whose face I couldn’t see. A looming apartment building created the backdrop of the scene. Damien nodded his head cordially, and reached up to slam the trunk closed, cutting off my line of sight.

Muffled discussion continued for a few seconds more, then silence. My breathing had sped up without my conscious decision. It was only just dawning on me what had happened. I had been bought, and was being shipped off to who knew where. Terror filled me.

I kicked vainly at the side of the crate, but even that small movement left me lightheaded and gasping for breath. Damn it. If I ever got out of this I was never taking so much as an aspirin ever again. Shadows writhed at the corners of my sight, inky black against the dark trunk interior.

A car door banged, and the rumble of an engine started. How the hell was I gonna get out of this? If I didn’t do something fast, I didn’t even want to think about where I might be headed. I searched the crate desperately for splinters to unlock my hands, my fingers fumbling and numb.

We were moving now. Every bump in the road rattled my bones and made my head thump painfully against the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut as the nausea came back in full force.

_Come on you wimp, you’re a Winchester!_ Dean’s face flashed behind my closed lids. I might never see him again unless I figured something out. My fingers scrabbled over the wood, but it was smooth and unbroken. The car bounced again, smacking my head hard enough to make stars dance across my vision.

_It can’t hurt if I rest for a little_ , I thought wearily. My body was so heavy and warm. Sleep whispered invitingly, brushing against me like waves lapping at a sandy shore. I couldn’t think, couldn’t remember why my instincts were shrieking at me, and the waves were shushing softly around my ankles, drawing me in deeper and deeper.

An insistent voice was yelling somewhere, screaming at me to stop, to come back! I halted and looked back for the source, but the crashing of the waves grew deafening, drowning out the pleading words. The ebb and flow was hypnotic, waves rising gently towards the beach with a rush, before breaking into a spray of white foam and retreating back to the wide blue expanse, hissing over the sand until the next wave overwhelmed it. It was so peaceful here. The salty water swirled around my thighs, coaxing, enticing. With a sigh, I surrendered and allowed the tide to sweep me out to sea.

 

* * *

 

Minutes, hours, days could have passed before I fully woke again. I had a vague memory of a needle piercing my arm, the glaring sun overhead obscuring the holders face, but that could easily have been a dream rather than an actual event.

I could tell as soon as I came to that something had changed. My head felt clearer than it had in days, and as I flexed each of my muscles in turn, they responded to my commands instantly and without effort. Granted, my tongue still tasted as though it was covered in a layer of furry mold- although that might have been from the rank gag that was still stuffed in my mouth- and a pounding headache hammered at my temples, so I wasn’t completely back to normal. Despite that, I had forgotten how good it felt to be able to string more than two sentences together.

As my strength returned, so did the sensations in my arms and legs. Without my nerves deadened, I discovered just how many cramps the extended confinement had worked into my limbs. I straightened my legs to stretch out the sore muscles, but hit the bottom of the crate after only a few inches. Frustrated, I stamped down on the slats by my feet, but the wood barely rattled.

I forced down the abrupt swell of claustrophobia the move provoked, and rested my cheek against the floor. I had to think this through. For the first time in a long while, I was in almost full control of my faculties. Panicking now, when I had what might be my only chance of escape, was the stupidest thing I could do. It might only be a snowball’s chance in hell, but there was no way I was going to let it slip through my grasp.

What I guessed to be roughly fifteen minutes passed when the motion of the car suddenly changed. The crunch of gravel filled the air, and the floor shook worse than ever. _A driveway?_ If so it was the longest one I had ever been on. It took another ten minutes for the car to slow to a stop.

The driver door opened and closed, and the sound of footsteps reached my ears. My heart began to pound. _Steady, Sam._

I closed my eyes and relaxed, pretending the drug was still keeping me safely unconscious. The trunk opened, and the clicking of a lock was followed closely by the lid of the crate being raised. Hot sunlight spilled over me, but I resisted the urge to shield my eyes. Dad’s advice from years ago echoed in my mind.

_“Remember Sammy, timing is everything. Go too soon, and you’ll be caught with your pants around your ankles. Too late, and the bastard will be ready for it. Choose the right moment, then commit to it.”_

“How the hell is he still out?” a man asked loudly. “I could’ve sworn he’d be awake by now.”

“Well he is just a skinny little thing. It probably hits him pretty hard,” someone answered. I managed to hide my surprise, for those were the lilting tones of a woman. I had sworn the man was alone. Had she been in the car the whole time? I was more out of it than I thought, if I had missed something that obvious.

“Hmph. We better get him inside. Mr Cheverill will be home soon.” Strong arms slid under my back and knees and lifted me from the crate. It took all my concentration to stay lax and allow myself to flop against the man’s chest. _Almost there..._

Ever so carefully, I slitted my eyes open. Even through the shelter of my eyelashes, the late afternoon light was blinding after my days confined in my windowless cell. Almost immediately I closed them against the stabbing pain, but urgency was pulsing in my blood. If I didn’t make a break for it soon I would lose my tenuous opportunity.

I peered out again, giving myself a second to adjust, and quickly scanned my surroundings. What I saw wasn’t encouraging.

Straight in front of me, the direction we were walking, was a massive manor house. And when I say massive, I mean _massive_. It was hard to keep my expression slack, when inside I was gaping like an urchin from Oliver Twist. The crummy motels I was accustomed to were like flakes of coal, and this a glimmering diamond in comparison.

Wide sweeping steps led up to heavy mahogany front doors. Ornately carved pillars flanked the entrance way, swirling designs seeming to leap out from where they were chiseled into the stone. It must have been at least four stories, with uncountable windows, balconies, and even freaking _gargoyles_. Gargoyles? Really?

Lush gardens sprawled like a cat out from the front of the house, and wrapped around it until they disappeared towards the back. The immaculate front lawn was pristine, the grass a perfect shade of verdant green. The whole house seemed to emit an air of grandeur, accentuated by its tinge of gothic architecture.

But what really held my attention was not the grand mansion, although it was certainly impressive enough. It was the thick forest surrounding it, with not an indication of civilization in sight. Thick grey trunks marched away everywhere I looked, only coming to an end when they were swallowed by the gloomy shadows flitting from one branch to the next. The snaking driveway was the single thing that broke their ranks. I was in the middle of nowhere, with no one to help me. Even if I got loose, from the looks of it I would have to trek miles before coming to a town.

_Don’t think about it_ , I told myself sternly. _I’ve survived in the wilderness plenty of times before_. I smiled inwardly, thinking about the camping trips our little family had taken, for hunting purposes of course. Dean had always complained the entire time, nonstop. About the scratchy sleeping bags, the crappy coffee, the cold, the unacceptable lack of female company... The list went on.

Time to move. My cheek was resting on the man’s chest. I could feel the steady drum of his heart, the subtle shifting of his muscles, so much bulkier than mine. All at once, I was aware how skinny I was, how malnourished from the past few days. In my state, this man could probably hold me down with one hand. Surprise would be my only advantage. _Now!_

As hard and fast as I could, I clenched my fists together and drove them into the man’s windpipe. He gasped, and his hands flew automatically to his throat, dropping me in the process. I landed hard on my side, but was back on my feet in a flash. The stinging pain of gravel embedded in my bare torso was nothing to what would happen if I didn’t move now.

The woman who had been walking beside us shrieked as her compatriot went down. I winced, but didn’t spare the time to check if anyone had been alerted to the scuffle. She snatched at me, nails scratching along my arm. I tore myself away and skipped out of reach.

A swift kick in the stomach to the man had him wheezing on all fours, struggling to breath. I ripped the gag out of my mouth, hurdled over him, and pelted as fast as I could for the beckoning sanctuary of the forest, the woman’s screams ringing in my ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!


	6. Chapter Six

I almost made it.

The haven of trees, branches laden with red and gold leaves, was yards away when my ears picked up the pounding of feet behind me.  I pushed even harder, driving my heels deep into the soft earth, but there was only so much my battered body could take.  Maybe if I had had a decent meal, or if the traces of the drugs had completely left my system, I could have put on a burst of speed and melted into the shadowy undergrowth.  But Winchester luck doesn’t work like that, does it?

As I sprinted over the last remaining open space, something struck me between the shoulder blades, sending me sprawling across the ground, pebbles digging into my exposed skin.  The air was knocked from my lungs, and my head cracked against the unforgiving ground, making stars explode in front of my eyes.

I curled into a ball on my side, cradling my head in my cuffed hands, and tried to remember how to inhale.  Heavy panting was my only warning before someone seized my shoulders and slammed me forcefully onto my back.  I bit back a groan, and peered up at the man now straddling my chest.

“Fucking kid can run,” he called over his shoulder.  He turned close-set eyes to me, scowling.  “Why the hell wasn’t Weissman more careful?”

I bucked up weakly, writhing for all I was worth (which apparently wasn’t much), and missed the breathless reply of the woman as she joined us.

“Don’t,” the man crushing my ribs snapped to me, leaning more of his weight over me to stop my squirming.

“Don’t hurt him Carter!” the woman squawked.  Her voice was irksome, high and squeaky.  It held the annoying quality reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard.  “Mr. Cheverill won’t like it at all if you do!”

“I’m not an idiot,” Carter rasped.  “Stop your fussing woman.  Although if Weissman had just done his damn job we wouldn’t have had such a close call.  Mr. Cheverill’s gonna be pissed he slipped up.”

“No need preaching to me.  What that man was thinking, letting the boy get away...”  She prattled on, lecturing about responsibility or something, and I let my head thump back into the dirt.  My chest was starting to ache from the unrelenting pressure of Carter’s considerable bulk.  The forest was so close.  It wasn’t friggin’ fair, to have tasted that sparse hint of freedom only to have it torn so cruelly away.  If I had run the tiniest bit faster, or if I hadn’t hesitated so long to make my move, I would have been in the trees and away.

A lump rose in my throat.  I couldn’t see how I was going to get out of this.  Would I ever see my family again?  A bitter taste coated my tongue when I thought of the last words I had spoken to Dad.  I didn’t mean them, not really.  How could I have accused him of not loving us?  Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, and an almost physical pain splintered my heart.  I would never get the chance to make it right.  He would never know how much I really loved him, stubborn ass that he was.

And Dean.  What would this do to him?  I wasn’t naive.  As much as he endeavored to hide it, I knew how much I meant to him.  He was my confidant, my immovable foundation in a foundationless life.  He was my Jerk, just as I knew I was the same to him.  Did life really hate us that much that it would separate us forever?  What had we ever done to deserve that?  I suppressed a sob and blinked furiously to stop the tears welling in my eyes.   _You’re giving up already?  You sure as hell won’t get away if you act like that, damn it!_ I shouted at myself. _Quit your whining so we can find a way out of this mess!_

What did Dean always say?  Always go down swingin’?  A caustic smile touched my lips.  I wasn’t defeated yet, not by a long shot.  I was going to fight tooth and nail to get back to my family, and if I was screwed anyway, I might as well give these bastards hell along the way.

Carter hadn’t shifted from where he was sitting on my torso, but he wasn’t pressing down as hard as he had been.  I probably had the woman’s ceaseless drivel to thank for that.  She had yet to stop yammering, and Carter was beginning to look quite cross. _Kudos to you, woman._

With a powerful jerk, I thrust my hips up and threw Carter over my head.  He landed with a whump and a shocked cry, but was on his feet in less time than I would have hoped.  I scrambled up, watching him warily, ignoring the woman’s grating wails of dismay.  She seemed content to watch the drama from the sidelines, hands over her mouth.

The problem now was that my maneuver had placed Carter between the forest and me.  He was eyeing me just as carefully, trying to predict which way I would go.  I edged to the right, but he guessed my plan and sidestepped swiftly, blocking me off.

“Come on kid,” he murmured, as though trying to calm a spooked horse.  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Go to hell,” I ground out, my voice a hoarse croak after so many days of disuse,  I really wished my hands weren’t chained together.  Without them, it was a chance in a thousand that I’d be able to win in a fight with the other man, who was already almost twice as broad as I was.  He knew it too, and took a slow shuffle forwards, attempting to close enough distance between us to tackle me back to the ground.

“You can’t get out of this,” he said, dark eyes never leaving mine.  “You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you fight it.”

I glared at him, and didn’t answer.  I couldn’t let him distract me.  Another small step towards me forced me to dance backwards to keep him out of range.  If he kept this up it would eventually drive us back to the house, where I would inevitably be cornered and caught.  That meant he knew what he was doing, which meant he was no amateur.  Crap.  This was bad.  My mind was racing, but the only way out that I could see was through two hundred pounds of brawny muscle.  I wasn’t cocky enough to think I could dodge past him.  I was far too tired.

In fact, I was on the verge of collapse, and my efforts to conceal it were getting increasingly flimsy.  My knees were shaking from holding me up for even that short amount of time, and the world had started to waver dangerously around me.  My mouth was sandpaper dry.  All I wanted to do was lie down and sleep, and my drooping eyelids loudly agreed.

_No, focus!_ I commanded, trying to inject some John-like crackle into my mental voice.

Carter had slunk nearer without me noticing, trapped in my own head, but a twig snapping underfoot jolted my attention back to him.  I could see in his expression that he knew I wouldn’t last long.  There was something almost resembling pity on his face, but it didn’t stop him from cutting me off as I tried to circle around towards the trees.

“Enough of this,” he reasoned softly, his tone betraying his intentions a moment before he lunged for me.  I swerved aside and managed to duck under his clutching fingers, but I was unprepared when his ankle hooked onto mine and swept my leg out from under me.  I windmilled frantically to regain my balance, and he snagged the opportunity to jump on me from behind.

His arms closed, vice-like, around my neck, one snaking over my windpipe, and the other keeping my head from shoving backwards into his face. _Damn it!_  It was a classic sleeper-hold choke, one Dean and I had practiced on each other countless times, and I couldn’t believe I had let Carter pull a move like that on me.  His arms tightened, and even as I struggled I knew it was pointless.  Already my vision was going gray, the blood supply to my brain cut off.

“Sorry kid,” Carter muttered it my ear, tone emotionless while I wheezed and thrashed in his grip.  His hold constricted, and the world spun around me, finally fading to black.

 

* * *

 

_“Dean?”  My voice is a whisper, hardly audible, lost in the darkness of the room.  But somehow he hears me.  He always does._

_“Yeah, Sammy?”_

_“Why did Mommy leave?”_

_A sharp inhale, followed by a long silence.  Then, “because she couldn’t stay Sammy.  She didn’t want to go, but she had to.  You know that.”_

_“Was it because she didn’t love me?”_

_“No, of course not!  Mom loved you Sammy!  Why would you think she didn’t?”_

_“They said she left ‘cause she didn’t love me.  She didn’t want me for a son.”_

_“Who told you that?”  The venom in his words is unmistakable._

_“These kids at school...”_

_“You listen to me Sammy.  Those kids?  They’re just jealous that she loved you more than anything.  She left because she had to, and for no other reason.  No one would ever leave you if they had a choice.”_

_“But they said-”_

_He cuts me off passionately.  “It doesn’t matter what they think!  She loved you, just like Dad and I do.  You are one of the most amazing people I know.  Never forget that.”_

_“So you won’t leave me too?”_

_“Of course not!”_

_“Promise?”_

_Rustling.  Footsteps padding across the motel floor.  My blanket lifts and he crawls in beside me, his arms circling round my small frame to hug me tightly to him, my back against his chest._

_“I promise Sammy.  Nothing will ever make me leave you.”_

_The steady thumping of his heart lulls me back to sleep, watching over me through the long night._

 

* * *

 

These motel beds were strangely comfortable.  The sheets were cool and smooth, unlike the usual scratchy rags I was used to.  The mattress wasn’t lumpy either, and the pillow!  Maybe Dad had come by some money and booked us into an actual hotel, rather than the typical rat-infested pits we were accustomed to.  However he’d done it, I wasn’t complaining.  This was the most comfortable bed I’d been in, ever.

A warmth on my skin told me that sun was streaming across me from somewhere.  It must be a weekend, which was why Dad had let me sleep in so late.  That was rare in itself, because normally he’d be dragging Dean and me out the door for a run, or a sparring match.  Well, whatever.  Fine by me if he chose not to do it today.

I sank deeper into the blankets, letting out a contented hum.  It was always possible Dad had gone out into the town to research and left me and Dean for the morning.  I flung out an arm to where Dean was lying, ready to “accidentally” smack him in the face and wake him from whatever dream he was having.  Knowing him, it probably involved hot, half-naked chicks and whipped cream.  I quirked my lips, already bracing myself for his wrath when such a pleasantly erotic dream was ended prematurely.

But my arm hit empty air.  I frowned.  Dean never, _never_ got up before me.  I felt around, and encountered more sheets, but no brother.   _What-_

Memory hit me like a boulder being dropped on my head.  My eyes shot open and I bolted upright, a sharp pain stabbing my chest as my heart rate went from sleepy to frenzied in less time than it took to blink.  I stared around the unfamiliar settings, breathing in short, little spurts, my hands fisting in the bedclothes so violently that my tendons popped with the strain.

The room I was in was palatial, at least to my uncultured eye.  The bed, where I was sitting, was pushed against the back wall, ornately carved bedposts glowing in the sunlight spilling in from the wide, south-facing windows to my right.  From the color of the golden rays, I judged that it was still late afternoon.  In front of the windows was a small sitting area, consisting of a plush couch facing two equally cushioned chairs.  Between them was a sparkling, pure-white, marble table  To my left resided a heavy, antique desk, slightly towards the front of the room, and beside that a half-open door through which I could see the beginnings of an expansive wardrobe.  Thick rugs were spread periodically throughout the room, polished wood floor peeking out from beneath them.  It was the richest place I had ever been in, and I had never wanted to leave anywhere as much as in that moment.

With an impressive amount of flailing, I got my legs under me and waded to the edge of the mattress through a sea of fluffy pillows.  God, I was so tired of waking up in unfamiliar beds.  I was also tired of other people washing me.  With a hint of revulsion, I realized my hair was slightly damp, and though I still had no shirt, I had on a pair of jeans I had definitely not been wearing before.

A stray blanked snagged my foot as I stood, sending me elegantly face-first into the floor.  I flung an arm out to catch myself, and as my hand entered a stray beam of sun, something glittered in the the gentle light. _Huh?_  I clambered back up and stumbled over to the windows to examine it.

A wide band was clamped around my wrist, silver in color, and fitted snugly enough that I couldn’t slip it off.   _What the hell?_  I turned it around, and found a small lock on the back, firmly soldered shut.  That was it.  No markings, no nothing.  Just smooth, unbroken metal.  A matching cuff encircled my other wrist as well, and a cool weight at my neck told me of a third.

Weird.  I tugged at the one around my throat, disliking the confined sensation it gave me, as though it would choke me given the smallest opportunity.  What were they for?  I pondered this, but the only explanation I could think of was a kind of mark of ownership, which was all kinds of messed up.  

But I had other things to worry about rather than jewellery with seriously questionable taste.  Namely, getting the fuck out of here.  I couldn’t see a more perfect opportunity than right now, when I wasn’t drugged or tied up.  They had even left me without any supervision.  Actually, it was a little unnerving how confidant the gesture seemed.  Wouldn’t these people want to protect their investments?  Why hadn’t they bothered to make sure I stayed put?  I couldn’t shake the uneasy hunch that escaping wouldn’t be as simply as I’d hoped.

I looked out the broad bank of windows, trying to get my bearings.  The sun was halfway below the horizon, lighting up the sky in a blaze of orange and red.  Below me, stretching as far as I could see, leaves swayed in the playful breezes chasing each other through the trees, lit with a fiery tinge in the failing light.  The myriad patchwork of autumn hues blended perfectly with the bloody sky, creating a vibrant tapestry of color.  To my left, opposite the sun, the ground rose into a series of rolling, forested hills.  The natural beauty would have been breathtaking, but necessity urged my questing gaze down the the mansion grounds.

I must have been on the other side of the house from where I first arrived, because there was no sign of the long, gravel driveway.  Instead, directly underneath my window, a stretch of lush grass extended from the large stone patio to the treeline, several hundred feet away.  To one side of the yard, an artful tumble of rocks harbored a gushing waterfall, which fell dazzling into a shaded pool at its base.  A low wooden bridge arced across the rippling water.  Flowerbeds were scattered over the entire scene, the once colorful petals brown and withered in the advent of winter fast approaching.

I ran my fingers over the sill, searching for a latch, but found it securely locked.  If I had no other options I could always pick it.  I was sure I could find a makeshift tool in the room, but it would be better to free myself another way.  I was at least two, if not three stories up, and I didn’t want to risk a broken ankle.  That would ruin any hope I had of escape.

Other plans would have to wait until later.  The clunk of a lock disengaging had me spinning around to face the bedroom door.  My stomach roiled, one part apprehension, one part rabid panic as it swung open, and a man stepped across the threshold.

He was younger than I expected, no older than thirty-five, and his confident stride bespoke of a man who knew his place in life, and what a lofty position it was.  At once he gave the impression of a man unwise to betray or impede.  One would be insane to even think of it, for if they did he would crush them with no more remorse than squashing a bug.  This manifested itself in the sharp set of his shoulders, the sure way in which he moved, the cruel turn of his lips.  His dark blue eyes, so self-assured, held an edge of something colder, an unsavory glee as they rested on me.  When considering the monsters I knew lurked in the shadows, his face was mundane.  Yet in a way it was more worthy of the title “nightmare” than anything I had seen as a hunter.

And just like that it disappeared, like a mask sliding into place.  The look in his eyes was covered by one of welcome, the imposing planes of his body softened, and he smiled kindly at me as though we were old friends.  He didn’t fool me for a second.  I knew what he was: the same repugnant, damnable wickedness I had been confronting since I was six months old, only worse.  And right now, I was at his mercy.

I shrank back as he crossed the room towards where I was standing.  His expression was almost affectionate, which was perturbing to say the least.

“Ah, I’ve been looking forwards to finally meeting you!” he exclaimed, and for some reason I couldn’t pin down, the rich timbre of his voice sent a cold shudder down my spine.  I watched him, muscles tense, as he sank down onto the couch and leaned forward intently.

“Come now, make yourself comfortable,” he nodded to one of the opposing chairs.  His courtesy threw me slightly, but he looked complacent enough, so I left my post by the window and gingerly perched on the very edge of the chair.  The man smiled encouragingly, eyes fixed keenly on my face.

“See, not so hard, was it?”  When I didn’t answer, he sighed delicately.  “I’m not going to bite, you know.”

_Yeah, not yet at least_ , I thought with a stab of dark humor.

The man plowed on through the awkward pause.  “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.  I suppose Cole and Damien never bothered to ask.”

The silence stretched between us while I debated whether to answer.  I didn’t see any harm in it, at least.  “Sam,” I said finally.  “It’s Sam.”

“Sam.”  The man rolled the name over his tongue like sampling an expensive wine.  “Short for Samuel, I assume?”  At my jerky nod, he tilted his head thoughtfully.  “Samuel.  That’s a good name.  Strong and simple.  It suits you.”  His lips curled into a grin.  “I look forward to making your acquaintance, Samuel.”  

I stiffened.  I had heard that tone far too many times from Dean when he was chatting up a pretty bartender to mistake its meaning now.  “I hate to disappoint you,” I said fiercely.  “But I don’t intend on sticking around that long.”  

The surprised expression hadn’t even finished dawning in his eyes before my fist cracked into the side of his head.  My other hand caught his chin in a powerful uppercut, followed by a jab to the solar plexus that expelled any air from his lungs.  I let him fall back against the cushions, and pelted for the door that the cocky bastard hadn’t even bothered to close.  

I was halfway there when my foot froze mid-step.  The moment seemed to hang suspended, plucked from the flow of time, unable to move forward.  A terrible intuition prickled the back of my neck.

Then my world exploded into pain.  I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breath_.  It felt like my very nerves had been set alight, and the highest, hottest flames were charring them to ash.  I had been shocked before, but never like this.  This was like being struck by lighting over and over. It was so intense, I wasn’t even sure it was electricity coursing through me.  From a long way away, someone was screaming.  I almost couldn’t tell it was me, because I couldn’t feel my vocal chords.  I couldn’t feel anything beyond the blinding agony.

And as quick as it had come, it was gone.  I was lying on the hard floor, gasping and trembling, clammy sweat beading my brow.  The remnants of the sensation pinged under my skin, making my muscles twitch crazily.  

Furniture creaked, and shoes clicked on wood, but I couldn’t summon the will to move.  All I could do was roll protectively onto my side, arms wrapped around myself, and try to steady my erratic breathing.  I sensed the presence behind me crouch down, and then a hand pressed down on my shoulder, turning me onto my back.  I flinched, pulling away, but the hand clamped down tighter, pinning me to the floor.  The man spoke in a quiet voice, soft and deadly.

“That was a very foolish thing to do, Samuel.”  He gripped my chin, forcing me to look him square in the eye.  “I guess no one explained this to you, but what you think doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, wrenching at his arms.

Another lance of pain speared me, making my vision go white.  Every muscle went rigid, and my back arched wildly as an unintelligible shriek tore itself from my throat.  This one was shorter than the first, and when it passed I slumped back, unable to stop the whimper from slipping through my gritted teeth.

“Maybe I didn’t make this clear.”  His tone was matter-of-fact.  Fingers scraped against my scalp and lifted my head by the hair.  I opened my eyes, and found that I was practically nose-to-nose with the man.  “I. Own. You.  You are here for my enjoyment, and nothing else.  That is the only thing you are worth.  Your only purpose.  Understand?”

I thought of Dean, and my forgotten dream whispered from the back of my mind.   _“It doesn’t matter what they think!  She loved you, just like Dad and I do.  You are one of the most amazing people I know.  Never forget that.”_  A small warmth flickered in my chest.

Knowing what the consequence would be, I gathered all my defiance and snarled, “Yeah I understand.  I understand that you’re an egotistical son-of-a-bitch that seriously needs to shove-”  I interrupted myself with a howl of agony.  This time, my hands went to my neck as I finally realized what the silver cuffs were for.  It felt like acid flowing through my veins, pumped in from where the metal touched my skin.

Maybe he was sick of my attitude, because the pain went on and on and on.  It continued for so long I thought my windpipe might rip from the screams forced out of it.  After what felt like hours, but could only have been a few minutes at most, the tortuous burning abruptly stopped, as though a switch had been flipped.  I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

“I was told you’re a spirited one.”  A hand stroked the hair out of my eyes.  “But as you can see, resisting will get you nowhere.”

I turned and glared up at him, not trusting myself to speak.

“Ah Samuel, you will not be so stubborn after I have finished.  You will break, just like every other child I have trained.”  He was so sure as he said this, so arrogant.  It made me want to wipe the smirk off his face with my fist.

My righteous fury helped release my tongue.  “I’ll n-n-never let-t that ha-happen, you s-self-f-centered b-bastard!”

My stutter appeared to amuse him.  He shook his head condescendingly and fingered at a bracelet around his left wrist.  The cuffs tingled, and a short jolt of agony crashed over me.

“Believe what you want.”  He palmed my cheek in his hand, keeping my glazed eyes on his.  “But you will break.  And enough of this petulant name calling.  From now on, you will address me as “sir”, or “master”.

I stared at him, disbelieving.  If it hadn’t been so real, I would have burst out in hysterical laughter at the ridiculous situation I had been thrust into.  He wanted me to call him “master”?  God, could life just not cut me a break?

He was waiting patiently for some sort of confirmation.  When I kept my mouth shut he sighed, and his hand went back to the bracelet, watching apathetically while I cried out beneath him.  As soon as he released it, the pain died away.

“Mr. Cheverill!” a woman called from the floor below.  “You’ve got a call on line three!”

“Damn, and we were just making progress,” the man, Cheverill, said conversationally.  “I wouldn’t try to leave this room if I were you, Samuel.”  He flicked my collar.  “These will go off if you do.”  He stood, cracking his back, and surveyed me, still curled on the floor at his feet.  “I’ll be back soon.  I would take this time to re-appraise your behavior, and to come to terms with your new life.  When I return I shall expect more respect than you have shown thus far.”

The door shut with a decisive click.  I closed my stinging eyes and tried to convince myself that my trembling limbs was just an aftermath from the shocks.

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed and left kudos! I'm reinforcing all the warnings for this chapter, like seriously. Don't read if graphic isn't your thing.

As it happens, Cheverill hadn’t been lying when he warned me not to leave.  He didn’t even lock the door behind him.  He didn’t need to.  The moment my foot crossed the threshold, a blast of electricity erupted from the metal bands and raced through my body.  I didn’t even manage a scream before my muscles locked together under the burning onslaught.  I couldn’t think about escape, or the fact that Cheverill might come back at any moment.  Instinct took over, and how to stop the pain was all it cared about.

 

    When my sight cleared, I was on the floor.  Again.  Damn it.

 

    I got my legs under me and pushed myself to my feet, pretending that I wasn’t listing heavily to the side, and that I wasn’t shaking like a leaf in a gale.  I took a few steadying breaths and stumbled over the soft rugs to the bank of windows.  Half sitting, half falling into one of the chairs, I tried unsuccessfully to quell the insistent tremors in my hands.  

 

    _Alright Sam, think_.  I pushed away the rising feeling that was definitely not fear, and scanned the room, searching for anything I might have missed.  The bed, the desk, the sitting area and the windows yielded nothing new.  I examined the rugs and the framed paintings hanging on the walls, then turned my attention to the three doors spaced around the room.

 

    There was one on each wall, excluding the one looking out over the forest.  To my right, the one I had just tried, led to the rest of the house and was no longer an option.  The door facing me, opposite the windows, looked to be a walk-in closet.  I strode over to it and hesitated, wondering if the cuffs would go off.  Deciding there was nothing for it, I screwed my eyes shut and pushed the door open.  Nothing happened.  Exhaling unsteadily, I flicked the light switch, but was disappointed to see no other door or window.  Not that I had expected one.  I surveyed the racks of clothes just in case, not really sure what I was looking for, but looking all the same.  No miraculous escape plan presented itself.

 

    Frustrated, I turned to the last door, which was slightly to the right of where the bed was shoved up against the remaining wall.  I flinched as I opened it, expecting a zap from the cuffs, but it was only a bathroom beyond.  A shower on the far side, next to a large bathtub, and coupled with a long, shining counter.  Nothing caught my eye, so I returned to the main room to appraise my options.

 

    As I saw it, I had two courses I could take.  Well, three technically.  First, I could try to get the cuffs off and escape through the main door.  The obvious problem with this plan was that I wasn’t sure I could get the damn things off, especially the one around my neck.  Also, even if I somehow managed it, I would have to sneak my way through a mansion most likely crawling with staff.  The prospects of that were not encouraging.

 

    Second, I could unlock one of the windows and brave the drop to the ground.  This seemed more probable that removing the cuffs, but from this height I would be risking a broken ankle upon landing, if not worse.

 

    My third choice wasn’t even an alternative really, because it involved staying here for far longer than I was willing, and attempt to either steal the control bracelet off of Cheverill, or figure out how to disable the cuffs.  There was no way in hell I was going to wait that long, which left options one and two.

 

    I pondered the decision, keeping my ears pricked for anyone approaching the room, and finally settled on shimmying out the window.  I was going to get a lot worse than broken bones if I stayed here, and it was quicker than trying to get my collar off.   _Alright then, enough dawdling_ , I told myself.   _Let’s get this over with_.

 

    Apparently, Cheverill hadn’t considered the fact that I might have known how to pick locks, or else he wouldn’t have left me access to an entire closet full of wire coat hangers.  Within minutes, I was sitting by one of the windows, holding a makeshift pick.  My eyebrows furrowed in concentration, I wiggled the tool into the lock and carefully felt for the tumblers.

 

    Loud voices echoed suddenly from outside the door, accompanied by footfalls that were heavy on the hardwood floors.  My breath caught, and I whipped the hanger out of the lock and stuffed it under a couch cushion.  I was not a moment too soon.  A woman bustled into the room, mousy ringlets bouncing around her shoulders, carrying a covered tray in her hands.

 

    She glanced around quickly as she entered, the skin at the corners of her eyes tightening almost imperceptibly as she caught sight of me standing cautiously on the other side of the room.  I recognized her as the shrill, effusive woman from my arrival.

 

    Never taking her eyes off me, she set the tray down on the floor just inside the doorway.  “Mr. Cheverill says you’re to eat that,” she said in a rush.  “He knows how hungry you must be.”  With a flurry of skirts, she retreated, as though afraid I would suddenly turn rabid and attack her.

 

    As if on cue, my stomach rumbled.  Now that I was aware of it, I was ravenous.  The last time I had eaten had been with Cole and Damien, almost two days ago, maybe longer.  My memories were foggy with drugs, so my sense of time was unreliable at best.  I eyed the tray longingly, torn between food and escape.  A short, bloody war ensued within my mind, until food won out and I scrambled over to it, mouth already watering.

 

    A billow of steam bathed my face as I lifted the lid, carrying the most wonderful smell I had ever known.  I inhaled deeply, then snatched up the plastic fork-not even anything I could use as a weapon- and eagerly dug into the plate of chicken and rice.  Delicious flavor flooded my mouth, and I shoveled down half the food without pausing to breathe. _At least he feeds me well_.  I took another large bit and chewed greedily, when an abrupt though made me drop the fork with a clatter.   _He wouldn’t have drugged it, would he?_

 

    I swore softly at my stupidity, and replaced the cover, ignoring the heavenly scents wreathing around me.  Hopefully I was just being paranoid, but years of living with John Winchester, for whom anal suspicion encompassed at least a third of his personality, had left its mark on me.  I was also in no hurry to regress back into the drugged, mindless puddle I had been for the past few days.   _Sam, you idiot!_

    I raised a hand, experimentally flexing the fingers.  I still felt normal, but I wasn’t counting on it staying that way.  The drug could just be slow-working.  I stood and retrieved my bent coat hanger from the couch.  Lucid or no, I was getting out.  I would just have to put as much distance between myself and here before anything in the food rendered me incapable of thinking straight.

 

    The crude lockpick did the trick.  I clicked the tumblers into place and swung the window out, letting in a stream of chilly autumn air.  I relished the fresh smells of falling leaves and frost, already imagining how nice it would be to run through the trees after days of confinement.  

 

The window I had chosen was at floor level to minimize the drop as much as possible.  I laid down on my stomach and grasped the sill to pull myself forward.  My hands cleared the room, pressing against the outside of the house, and a worryingly familiar tingle ran through the metal cuffs.   _No.  He couldn’t ha-_

Agony boiled down my arms and chest, raging through my nerves like white-hot pokers being stabbed through my skin.  I couldn’t choke back the scream that wrenched itself from my throat, or the way my muscles seized as though struck by palsy.  My eyes rolled back in my head, and I couldn’t pull my hands back inside, couldn’t get the cuffs out of range of whatever activated them.  The pain thundered down all around me, blocking out all other sensations.  It only stopped when I fled deep within myself, and drew oblivion about me like a shield.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A pen was scribbling on paper.  The noise irritated me.  I wished it would go away so I could sleep, surrounded by these silken sheets and fluffy pillows.  Without opening my eyes, I reached up lethargically to scratch at a spot under my collar.   _Collar..._

 

I jerked upright, and was sliding off the bed before Cheverill had a chance to look around.  He was seated at the desk, a half-finished letter in front of him, and at the burst of movement he turned in his chair, watching me calmly as I careened back and away from him.  Sadly, my dramatic awakening was spoiled somewhat by the sudden onset of the mother of all head rushes.  Blood pounded in my ears as it drained from my face, and I had to stumble back against the wall for support, the world tilting dangerously.

 

Outside, night had fallen.  Stars winked at each other around the lopsided gibbous moon.  The room was full of shadows, flickering in the light of a lone lamp.  They capered over Cheverill’s face, turning his eyes into deep chasms plunging far beneath the Earth’s surface.  

 

“Samuel, I thought I told you not to leave.”  His tone was quiet and even, but the undercurrent of menace running through it made me tense, all my warning bells blaring.

 

“I must admit I am surprised,” he continued, surveying me with a calculating expression.  “I did not expect you to be able to know how to make a lockpick, much less use it successfully.”  He held up the twisted coat hanger, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.  “But then, I guess you’re just full of surprises.”  He smiled coldly at me, and easily bent the piece of metal into a crushed, useless ball.  I swallowed nervously at the glint in his eye, my mouth drying up as he stood and leaned back on the desk.

 

“I see that you have yet to accept the full reality of your new life.  Your little jaunt out the window is evidence of that.”  His eyes caught mine, steely blue against soft hazel, and seemed to drill into my very soul, preventing me from looking away.  “I think that we need to set a couple ground rules, yes?”

 

‘You’ve got more than a few screws loose if you think I’m gonna listen to you,” I snarled vehemently.

 

A flash of anger crossed Cheverill’s features, quickly wiped away as he raised an eyebrow and pressed a hand to his wrist.  The shock of pain, although brief, sent me gasping to hands and knees.

 

“Rule one,” Cheverill said, as though nothing had happened.  “You will not try to escape again.  It is impossible while you wear those bands, and if you attempt to do so again your punishment will be most severe.”

 

“You really enjoy the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”  I asked, clambering to my feet.  No sooner had the question left my mouth than the cuffs went off, returning me right back to the floor.

 

“Rule two: you will give me the proper deference I am due.  Any childish insults or mouthing off to me will not be tolerated.”  I managed a derisive snort, but he overrode me.  “Furthermore, any endeavor to attack me, such as you did previously, will not transpire again.  I can assure you that pursuing that course of action will only bring you consequences that would be prudent to avoid.”

 

“God, would you drop the whole educated act and talk like a fucking normal person?” I snarked, proud my voice was steady, although I was leaning heavily against the wall to support my shaky legs.  “Cause let me tell you, you don’t sound half as smart as you-”  I broke off with a smothered whimper, barely keeping myself from sliding down the wall as a third jolt of pain engulfed me.

 

“Rule three, and most important of them all: you will do what I tell you, when I tell you, and you will do it without question or complaint.”  Cheverill straightened from the desk and closed in on my sagging form, placing an arm threateningly on both sides of me, glaring intently into my rebellious face.  I pressed myself back, not liking the invasion of personal space.  “This includes every order, sexual in nature or not.  You will obey me, and you will enjoy it.  Your place is at my feet, where you belong.  Understand, Samuel?”

 

I kneed him in the balls.

 

The anticipated surge of pain was worth it for the sound he made as I connected.  I slipped down to the floor, howling, as the metal bands around my wrists and neck flared to life.  I guess I pissed him off, because a full minute passed, and my muscles began to shake under the strain.  My voice cracked, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of consciousness, trying to find an escape from the harrowing agony.

 

“No, no, we can’t have you blacking out just yet,” Cheverill whispered silkily in my ear, bending down to where I was huddled.  The cuffs fell idle as hands clamped around my arms, yanking me to my feet and slamming me hard against the wall.  I coughed, disoriented, and struggled feebly to pull free.

 

A cheshire smile was stretched across Cheverill’s face.  With surprising strength, he pinned both my wrists above me with one hand, and with the other brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes.

 

“It seems that you’re a slow learner,” he hummed, gently stroking my cheek and completely ignoring my efforts to break his hold.  “But don’t worry.  I’m a very patient teacher.”  Then he leaned forward, and kissed me full on the mouth.

 

My brain froze.  My eyes widened.  His lips pressed harder against mine, but shock kept me from lurching away.  I had known, _known_ that this was why he had bought me, but I had never thought I wouldn’t have been able to escape before he had a chance to take advantage of me. _He’s_ kissing _me!_ I thought wildly, unable to process it.

 

It was only when I felt his tongue slip out and press against my clenched teeth that I snapped out of my daze.  I jerked back, my head hitting the wall, and furiously wrenched my face away.  

 

“Get the fuck away from me!” I shouted.

 

Cheverill gave a throaty laugh.  “Why Samuel, we are only just beginning.”  His free hand gripped the points behind my jaw, forcing it open.  His mouth covered mine, and his tongue swept over my teeth, needy and demanding.  His body pressed flush against me, holding me immobile while I kicked and squirmed.  The kiss deepened, and I gagged as I felt his arousal stiffening along my inner thigh.

 

Cheverill pulled back, breathing in short, little pants, releasing my chin to cup my cheek in his palm.  “Get your hands off me,” I snarled, lunging forward to smash my forehead into his nose.  He managed to grab a handful of my hair a fraction of a second before I connected, and used it to crack the back of my head into the wall.

 

Stunned, my limbs slackened, and keeping a hand fisted in my hair, Cheverill hauled me across the floor and dumped me roughly onto the bed.  I punched him in the face, but it was a glancing blow and he retaliated with a growl, reaching for his bracelet.

 

I screamed, clawing at the cuffs, and he pounced, wrestling my jeans off while I recovered.  Suddenly, all that stood between me and him were my thin, flimsy boxers.  I swung at him again, frantic to get him off me, but my attack was sloppy, all technique thrown out the window in my panic.  He trapped my wrists and clambered atop my chest, restraining my arms with his knees.  A ripping sound echoed through the room as he tore his shirt off, barely audible over the terrified beating of blood in my ear.

 

I bucked my hips feverishly, but he held on with unexpected tenacity and threaded his fingers through my hair, wrenching my head back to expose my throat.  My racing pulse was visible at its base.  Cheverill stared at it lasciviously, cranking my neck even farther to suppress my struggles.  Our twin gasps filled the room, his of desire, mine of fear.

 

Then his mouth was on my skin, kissing and licking, and I was yelling indiscernibly in outraged horror.  His lips moved to my chest, leaving a trail of reddened marks in their wake.  He lifted his head, pupils blown, to give me a sick grin, and in the shadows cast by his brow, he looked like one possessed.  But I had no time to consider the thought.  His teeth closed around my right nipple and teased at the soft flesh, swirling his tongue across it like some sort of delicacy.

 

His hands on my scalp were painfully tight.  He gave my chest a final suck before raising his head and crushing his lips into mine, silencing my shouts.  I bit at him, so he grasped my chin to hold me steady and explored my mouth, his tongue fighting with mine.

 

“Ah, Samuel, I knew you would not disappoint me,” he ground out when he broke away.  “You’re simply intoxicating.  I have no other word for it.”  He nibbled on my left earlobe, and gradually worked his way up to the shell, nipping at the fragile skin.

 

“You’re fucking sick!” I said, getting a warning tug on my hair when I attempted to push him away.  “I’m gonna kill you, you perverted freak!”

 

“Sticks and stones Samuel,” he purred, and licked a long stripe up my neck, inducing a disgusted grunt from me.  My protests and thrashing only served to stretch his smile wider.

 

One hand still tangled in my hair, he sat up and undid the clasp of his pants with the other.  My breath hitched, and I strained desperately to throw him off me, to get him to _stop_.  His pants came off and he tossed them carelessly aside, sending a bolt of electricity through the cuffs when my elbow came free and slammed into his ribs.

 

Hooking his arms under my shoulders, he heaved me into the center of the enormous bed, dropping me on my back amidst the pillows.  The aftershocks of the cuffs fizzled out as he straddled my arms and torso and bent to kiss me again.

 

I writhed in a frenzy, spitting curses, while his lips latched onto my throat.  His hands wandered up and down my chest, and the feeling of his bare skin on mine made me want to be sick.  His fingers caressed my stomach, then dipped lower and lower, snapping the band of my boxers playfully against my hips.  My eyes shot open as he began to work them down my legs.   _No!  Nonononono!_

 

I won’t deny that my father and I have our differences.  Especially as I got older, and began to realize that Dad wasn’t the infallible superhero I thought he was, our arguments became harsher and more frequent.  I always loathed the way he raised us to be soldiers, the physical training and the sparring, when all I wanted was to be a normal kid who could turn in his homework on time.  Hunting came before school, and always would.  Never had I thought I would be grateful for the hours spent trading blows with Dean, learning to beat opponents twice my size.

 

Cheverill’s weight shifted to better grasp the hem of my boxers, and all my years of grappling practice finally decided to kick in.  He had left the barest space between where his thigh was pinning my bicep to the bed, but it was all I needed.  Like an eel, I snaked my arm free and threw a savage punch across his face.  The blow knocked him off balance, allowing me to yank my other hand from beneath him and hammer it into his stomach.  A look of surprise fluttered across his face, but I didn’t pause to let it register.  I had to get the bracelet before he used it.  

 

    He realized what I was trying to do just as I lunged at his wrist.  We wrestled for it, and I used the distraction to thrust my hips up and roll so that now I was the one on top, his legs still circling my waist.  Cheverill’s gaze darkened, and he clenched his knees around my ribs, breaking my hold on his wrist as he shoved me back.  Furiously, I jabbed my elbows into the nerves on his lower thighs.  He fell away, but then his heel smashed into the center of my chest, catapulting me over the edge of the bed.  

 

    I landed with a loud thud, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.  I grunted as pain spiked through the joint, but it was eclipsed almost immediately as electricity sparked out from the cuffs.  I snapped my jaw shut to cut off the shriek as a roaring torrent of lightning poured into my veins.  My hands curled into talons that scrabbled pointlessly at the wood beneath me, back arching against the floor.  The muscles in my neck stood out in corded ropes from the effort of holding back the scream gouging at my throat.

 

    Cheverill stood from the bed and looked down at me, hand pressed unrelentingly to the bracelet.  “Samuel, you are sorely trying my patience.  If you do not contain yourself I will be forced to discipline you.”  His tone was level, but cold anger flashed in his eyes.

 

    I almost laughed.  Here he was telling me to control myself, while not ten seconds ago he was literally ripping his clothes off?  Fucking irony.  Not that I was in any mood to appreciate it when my skin felt like it was charring off my bones.  

 

    Cheverill let his hand drop from the bracelet, and bent to lift me back onto the mattress.  Half-conscious, I only realized what he was doing when the floor vanished from under me.  Damn, had I really lost so much weight that _everyone_ could pick me up?  None too gently, Cheverill deposited me amid the sheets.  He considered me for a moment, then backhanded me across the face, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing around the room.  

 

    “I dislike punishing you with beatings Samuel,” he said, moving away from the bed.  “I find it detracts from one’s appeal to have bruises and swelling.”  My eyes fixed on the ceiling as I contemplated the strength it would take to get up.  I really should, but I was so comfortable...  

 

    “That is why I prefer the bands.  They are exponentially more refined.”  A drawer opened, and something clinked quietly.  “With them, you decide how much pain to administer, and for how long.  You are in utter control of what the wearer feels.”  Cheverill reappeared, a shiny length of thick wire in hand.  I flinched back, willing my muscles to get their shit together and work again, but they studiously ignored me.  Who knew getting shocked repeatedly could take so much out of you?  Cheverill took my unresisting wrist, clipped one end of the wire to the cuff, then threaded the wire through the headboard before attaching the remaining end to my other cuff.

 

  _I don’t think I like beds too much anymore_ , I thought fuzzily.   _Too many people have been tying me to them._  I gave the bindings a weak tug, the familiar restrained sensation triggering adrenaline to seep back into my body. _Fucking spectacular timing_ , the sarcastic part of my mind fumed. _It couldn’t have kicked in before he tied me up?_

 

    “Ah, don’t look so put out Samuel.  The night is still young!”  Cheverill informed me cheerfully.  He was smiling again, one hand resting on my bare knee.  The quiet menace from moments ago was gone.  I blinked at him, bemused by the sudden change, until his touch glided higher and the meaning of his words sank in.  A sick fear flowered in my chest.

 

    The first time I learned what pedophiles were, I had only been four.  We had been staying in a ramshackle, old house while Dad hunted down some witch with a fetish for cutting out intestines, preferably while the poor bastard was still alive.  Dad had taken Dean and I with him to the local library while he did some research, and we were sitting at one of the tables amid the shelves of books.  I was pawing through one, big pictures of sea creatures leaping out from the pages, when I heard a rumble of voices and looked up.  An unpleasantly sweaty man, face flushed, was leaning over Dean with a smile on his fleshy lips.  I was confused, because I was sure we didn’t know this man.  But if we didn’t, why was he looking at Dean like that?  I could see Dean didn’t like him any more than I, because when the man tried to put a hand on his shoulder, he scooted his chair back as far as he could go without knocking into the shelf behind him.  Suddenly Dad was there, fury written all over his face.

 

    “Get away from my boy.”  The promise of bodily harm was so prominent in his deep growl, even I shivered in my seat.  The man paled and backed away, stammering, then fled into the maze of books.  Dad hustled us out after that.  Once we were back in our motel room, he sat us both down and, young as we were, made damn sure we knew how to make people to keep their hands to themselves.

 

    I had a feeling pedophile wasn’t the word to describe Cheverill.  My brain chimed in that ephebophile was probably more accurate, but at the moment I couldn’t find it in me to care.  Not when Cheverill was tracing the contours of my face with his fingers, obviously savoring the fact that I could no longer slap his hands away.  I braced myself as he leaned in and pressed a long, lingering kiss to my unresponsive lips.  It was less demanding than the others, sweeter, and felt all the worse for its intimacy.

 

    “I’m going to kill you,” I spat when he pulled away.  

 

He let out a quiet chuckle.  “I love your spirit Samuel.  It’s such a curious thing.”  He tucked a finger under my boxers and teasingly pulled them down a couple inches.  “I’m going to enjoy watching it break.”

 

No matter how hard I fought, I couldn’t dislodge him, and I turned my face away as I felt him pull the boxers over my ankles.  My cheeks burned with humiliation.  God, I was pathetic, letting him do this to me.  How could I have been so stupid, so _weak_ to get myself into this situation?  I cringed inwardly at the disgusted look on Dad’s face, knowing his son wasn’t strong enough to walk five steps without needing his hand held.  Dean wouldn’t have let himself get jumped like I had.

 

Cheverill shucked off his own underclothes and forced my legs apart so that he could settle onto the bed between them.  Ever so slowly, his hands moved from my hips to the base of my limp member, making me shiver involuntarily.  He tapped it lightly, artificial hurt in his expression.

 

“Aren’t you excited?” he asked.  “I know I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”  I gritted my teeth as he wrapped a hand around my length and unhurriedly began to work it up and down.  “It’s alright.  I’ll liven you up a bit first.”

 

I bit my lip and ground my cheek into the pillow to hold back the moan I knew he was waiting to hear.  More than anything else, I hated how _good_ it felt, when every inch of me was horrified at what he was doing.  His initial, languid pace soon sped up, until I was completely stiff in his grasp and my lip was raw and bloody from the struggle of remaining silent.  A fingernail tickled at the precum beading my tip, and my control slipped.  I bucked up into his touch, a gasp filling my lungs before I could stop it.  Cheverill grinned as I blushed and looked away, furious by my body’s betrayal.  

 

“Relax Samuel,” he said, giving me another tender pull.  “You are doing yourself no favors by your belligerence.”

 

“Go to hell,” I bit off, digging my nails into my palms as he kneaded my inner thighs.  He winked, then bent and closed his lips around my swollen head.  This was too much for me.  I groaned low in my throat, arching against the tongue that flicked over my skin.  How could I actually like this?  But I couldn’t help the knot of pleasure that formed between my legs as Cheverill took more of me into his mouth and sucked salaciously.  God, I was disgusting.  His hands wandered over me, trailing lines of heat wherever they went.  One found my sac and massaged it delicately.

 

I could feel the edge rushing closer, and unwillingly bucked up again, all at once repulsed and needing to come.  I squeaked in surprise when Cheverill drew back and clamped a hand tightly around my base and sac, preventing me from peaking.

 

“You climax when I allow it.  Not before,” he growled.  Without releasing his grip, he ducked back down and swallowed me whole, making heat pulse through my entire body.  I thrashed against his hold, body vibrating with the need of release, straining against the wire and cuffs.  Pain began to build along my length as his ministrations continued.  The taste of copper flooded my mouth as I bit down on my tongue, trying and failing to remain silent.  More than anything, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but as the seconds ticked by, my defenses gradually weakened.  A plaintive whine caught in my chest, and I was ashamed to find a tear creeping down the side of my temple.  But I couldn’t help it, just as I couldn’t stop myself from begging as the pressure became unbearable.

 

“Please stop.  Please,” I sobbed, hating how imploring my voice sounded.

 

Cheverill withdrew slightly and met my eyes with satisfaction, though his hand didn’t move an inch from its position.  “You’re learning already Samuel!  I’m delighted with how polite that was.  Still,” his fingers squeezed tighter, and I jerked fruitlessly against the cuffs, a low keen escaping me.  “We have a long way to go until you’re trained up properly.”

 

“No, stop!  Stop!” I cried, but for all the attention he paid me, I might as well have been yelling at a brick wall.  He let his other hand roam, exploring every part of me, until I was half-mad with the prolonged arousal.  He took his time, fondling and stroking, and at each noise of protest I made his grip contracted.  Every movement only made the pain worse, so finally I simply lay there, utterly powerless to do anything else.

 

“Very good,” Cheverill said, patting my leg.  “I think that’s enough for now.”  He took his hand away, and I shouted aloud at the intensity of the climax as it consumed me.  Briefly, I wondered if it would actually rip me apart.  The force of it snatched me up and whirled me away, bringing me soaring high before casting me back down into my drained body.  As it ended, all my hurts suddenly made themselves known, telling me just how many places ached.  I mustered up a moan, eyes closed.

 

“Hush Samuel, hush.”  Cheverill bent to kiss me, first my lips, then lower, down my neck and collarbone.  “It’s alright.  I’m going to take good care of you.”

“N-no, stop.”  It was a whisper, a desperate, last ditch effort to convince him that this was wrong.  That he should take back what he had done.  I don’t know why I bothered.  I felt a huff of amusement on my skin, and then he flipped me over onto my stomach.  There was a pause.  Later, I admitted to myself that I had known what was coming.  Maybe if I had been stronger I could have prevented it.

 

He pressed me down to the mattress, one hand on my hip and the second snarled in my hair.  Lips kissed across my shoulders, and I felt his hard length poke my ass.

 

“No... Please don’t...”  The words floated between us, shimmering and fragile like a soap bubble.

 

He turned my face towards him, and kissed the corner of my eye where a tear was threatening to fall.  “This is who you are now Samuel,” he murmured softly.  “Never forget that.”

 

He thrust forwards, hard, and I screamed as something inside me tore.  The pain was the worst I had ever felt, worse that when a werewolf had shredded my leg, worse than the snapping of a bone, worse even than the agony of the metal cuffs, because I knew that it was something- someone _inside_ of me. _Oh God, make it stop, make it stop!_ I pleaded.  But it didn’t.

 

Cheverill drew back slightly, then slammed back in, burying himself deep within me.  I screwed my eyes shut, breathing in short pants.  I’ve always thought of myself as tough.  Not as tough as Dean and Dad, to be sure, but no pushover.  Winchesters had more grit than that.  But the knowledge of what was happening, what  he was _doing_ to me? If I could have died, I would have, then and there.  It was bad enough I was the weak link of the family, but now I had proof.  Even if I got away and found Dad and Dean, how could I face them again, after what I had done?

 

 Cheverill rubbed soothing circles on my back, shoving in farther.  He rocked forward and back, establishing a rhythm that had me gritting my teeth to hold back the agonized sobs.  A layer of sweat sprang up on our skin, and his grip on my waist became bruising as his tempo increased mercilessly, groans of arousal emitting from the back of his throat.

 

I could feel my insides shredding with each thrust, the pain of what was happening and the sheer weight of my turbulent emotions threatening to crush me between them.  Just when I thought I would pass out from their combined potency, Cheverill threw back his head and climaxed.  He came inside of me, and I almost threw up at the slosh of liquid and the trickling sensation down my legs.  Slowly, Cheverill pulled himself out and tumbled to the bed beside me, a look of ecstasy lighting up his features.

 

We lay like that for a time, getting our breath back, me fighting to find a handle on the pain.  After awhile Cheverill rolled to face me, brushing his knuckles down my cheek.

 

“That, Samuel, was beautiful,” he praised.  “I can’t even imagine how good you’ll be after I’ve finished with you.”

 

I closed my eyes and turned away, too exhausted to reply.  He petted my hair fondly, and propped himself up on one elbow to roughly kiss the line of my jaw.  His fingers traced a path down my spine as he leaned in and said, “don’t relax just yet.  As I said, the night is still young.  We’ve got plenty of time.”

 

* * *

 

Much, much later, cool moonlight touched the rumpled bedsheets, illuminating the chaos in a silvery glow.  Cheverill’s heavy breathing was the only sound in an otherwise silent room.  

 

He was tucked up against me, one arm thrown possessively over my chest.  The cuffs were still wired to the bed, keeping me from slipping out from his embrace.   I stared out the bank of windows, watching the branches of the trees below tossing in a distant wind.  My mind was blank, void, flat.  It was like a placid ocean kept determinedly still.  If one looked at it, they would assume it tranquil, unaware of the looming leviathan half-hidden in the gloomy water.  I refused to acknowledge its presence, to think of anything at all.  Not Dean, not Dad, not the man in the bed beside me, or the sticky substances coating my thighs.  The throbbing pain in my lower back had been shoved firmly aside, into a dusty, overlooked corner.  I couldn’t think of these things, any of them, because if I did there would be nothing to stop my sanity from shattering like fragile strands of spun glass.

 

In the wash of moonlight, I shifted my stiff shoulders and marvelled at how different my body seemed, like it was no longer mine.  How could I go back to who I had been, when I had been indelibly claimed by another?  I twisted my wrists, the bands glimmering, and flexed my fingers, feeling the familiar contraction of muscles under the skin.  It was mine, and yet... not.  A dark streak across my knuckles caught my eye, and I turned my face away, bile burning in my throat.  

 

Automatically, I stamped down on the emotions that welled up at the sight, fighting to repress the memories aching to spill over my mental dam.  I wouldn’t remember, I _couldn’t_ remember.  Not now.  Perhaps not ever.

 

So I didn’t.  Instead, I closed my eyes, blocking out the feeling of Cheverill’s breath tickling across my collarbone.  Imagining I was a breeze racing through the wind-blown trees.  Imagining I was free.

 


	8. Chapter Eight

The rain had started again.  It drummed insistently on the motel roof, a steady pattering like the gentle tapping of fingernails against the windows.  Where the ragged drapes didn’t quite come together, a wedge of dark sky was visible, a roiling froth of bruised thunderheads that swept from one horizon to the next, shielding the stars and moon from sight like curtains drawn across an unlit stage.  Every so often, a flash would illuminate the towering clouds, displaying their awesome size and power for the span of a heartbeat, before flickering out and leaving the viewer blinded and breathless.  The boom of thunder would accompany it moments later, as though nature was applauding itself on its performance.

 

At this time of night, few were awake to acknowledge the show, and of those, even less were sober enough to appreciate it.  Only the neon signs of strip clubs and bars shone through the driving rain, their reflections trembling on the glistening surface of the road, capering grotesquely when a stray car splashed through them.  The drenched pavement was a sheet of guttering yellows, greens, and pinks.  The colors seemed too bright, too gaudy.  In a dreary, waterlogged landscape, they leapt out from their silvery gray surroundings, advertising sin and pleasure all at once.

 

Inside the motel room, the snatches of drunken laughter and growls of thunder were muffled.  Here, the steady ticking of the clock by the bathroom door beat out a slower, more sonorous beat to the rapid pulse of the rain.  Their tuneless melody seemed all the louder in the shadows that clung to the corners of the room, slinking under the beds and twining lazily around table legs.  Dark shapes stretched luxuriously, revelling in their freedom to explore the night without the sun to confine them.  They wandered excitedly around the room, just barely kept at bay by the soft, blue glow that emanated from the open computer balanced on Dean’s lap.

 

With shaking fingers, Dean tore his eyes away from the screen and reached for the mug of coffee resting on the table in front of him.  He tilted it back, then swore under his breath as the last couple drops trickled sluggishly over his tongue.  Fucking great.  Carefully, he set the mug back down and glanced over at John’s form sprawled out on the other bed.  Tired as his father was, the noise and fumes of brewing coffee would certainly rouse him.   _No more caffeine for you then_ , Dean thought resignedly to himself.  He forced his attention back to the computer, squinting at the tiny words that seemed to scatter like frightened rabbits whenever he looked at them, and rubbed impatiently at his prickling eyes.  He needed to focus.  He couldn’t afford to doze off again.  Not when that damn clock on the wall seemed hell-bent on reminding him that every second slipping by was another second that Sam was missing, another second that Dean failed to get him back.

 

_**Tick-tock, tick-tock**_ , it mocked.   ** _You let him go._ You _did.  What kind of big brother are you?_**

 

Dean shook his head and did his best to ignore it.  There was no way he was going to have a heart to heart with a damn _clock_.

 

**_I’m surprised he’s even lasted as long as he has, if you’re the one looking out for him.  What was your dear old dad was thinking, trusting him to a failure like you..._ **

 

Dean curled his hands into fists and stared blankly at the screen, teeth gritted as he tried to block out the words.

 

**_I suppose you’re not good for anything, are you?_** the clock continued spitefully. **_You had one job, just the one!  How do you fuck that up?  Do you have to practice being a complete screw up, or does it come naturally?_**

 

Dean glared at the wall, struggling to contain his rising temper.  “Shut up,” he breathed, keeping his voice low.

 

**_Ouch, so it does come naturally_** , the clock shot back. **_Well sucks to be you.  But you know who it’d suck worse to be? Your poor baby brother.  He’s probably dead by now, and it’s all your fault._**

 

“I said, shut up!” Dean spat.  “He’s not dead.”

****

**_Yeah, maybe you’re right._**  The clock sounded sarcastic. **_He’s probably having a lovely afternoon tea with Santa and the Easter Bunny.  I guess you worried for nothing.  Face it Dean-o, little Sammy’s dead, died all alone and screaming, and you couldn’t save him._**

 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking ab-”

 

**_Don’t I?  I know that you’re sitting here with exactly nothing, no clue what to do next, while little bro’s corpse is stiffening in a back alley.  Of course, that’s best case scenario.  There’s always the chance some supernatural fuck decided they wanted a new toy to play with.  I’d put my money on vamps.  They’re probably tearing into him right now, makin’ him scream real good before they drain him and-_ **

 

“You say another word, I swear to God I’ll-”

 

**_Tick-tock Dean-o, tick tock.  The longer you take, the longer Sammy is someone else’s little bitch.  I’d hurry it up too.  Some people take “bitch” a little more literally than you do-_ **

 

The clock shattered against the floor with a loud crash and splintering of glass.  John jolted up from bed, drawing a glittering, wickedly sharp dagger from beneath his pillow in the same motion, but all he saw was Dean standing over the ruined clock, shudders running through him from head to toe.

 

“Dean?” John asked, slowly getting to his feet and sliding the knife back into its sheath.  “Son, what are you doing?”

 

“Sorry sir.”  Dean’s voice was tight and stiff.  “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”  He turned away from John’s knowing gaze and made to pick up the laptop from where he had tossed it away.

 

“Dean,” John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  “I, ah...”  He shuffled his feet awkwardly, as though unsure of how to begin.  “You can’t keep going like this.”  

 

“Like what?” Dean said, playing dumb.

 

“Like what you’re doing Dean!  You have to take care of yourself.  You don’t eat, and you don’t sleep, and it’s killing you!” John exclaimed.

 

“I’m fine, Dad!  I know how to look after myself!” Dean retorted, but the fire was missing from his words.  He sounded as though he was two seconds from breaking down completely.

 

“My ass you’re fine!  When was the last time you actually ate something?  Or slept for more than twenty minutes at a time?”  Dean scowled and turned away, but John spun him back around, determined to make his stubborn son see reason.  “We’ll find him Dean, but running yourself into the ground isn’t helping!”

 

“Well what do you want me to do!” Dean shouted back, knocking away John’s hand and glowering up at him.  “You want to take our sweet time about this, while Sam’s who knows where?  Excuse me for not wanting to sit around with my thumbs up my ass!”

 

John took in a harsh breath, and reminded himself that Dean was frightened and exhausted.  Now was not the time to scold him for running his mouth off.  “We’re not just sitting here,” he said evenly.  “But these guys are hard to pin down.  We’ll get back at it in the morning, and if anyone finds something they’ll call us.  Bobby’s put his feelers out, and people are looking.”  Dean opened his mouth, but John spoke over him.  “Hell, even Josh is trying to track them down, and you can bet if there’s any info on these guys, he’ll find it.”

 

Dean had to nod to that one.  Researching prowess was something of a must when it came to hunting, but Joshua Matthews was one of the best.  Give the man a name and within five minutes he could tell you anything from their preferred shampoo brand, to the number of affairs they’d had with their neighbors’ wives.

 

John dragged his attention back with a hand on him arm.  “I know you’re worried Dean.  Hell, so am I,” he smiled slightly, though it came out as more of a grimace than anything.  “But doing this to yourself isn’t helping Sam.”

 

The shushing sound of the rain filled the room.  The faint light let in from the skewed curtains outlined Dean’s motionless form in faded blues and reds, the fiery, city colors dampened by the relentless storm.  A burst of lightning lit the sky, a whip crack of thunder following at its heels.  The tense silence stretched, until Dean slumped in defeat.

 

“Yes sir,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.”

 

Lightly, John grasped the back of his son’s neck and gave it a squeeze before letting go.  “We’ll find him Dean,” he promised.

 

Dean gave him a wan smile and picked the laptop up from the floor.  He hesitated a moment, looking at the screen.  “Five more minutes?” he asked imploringly.  “Then I swear I’ll crash.”

 

John sighed, taking in his son’s red-rimmed eyes and pleading expression.  Damned if that boy hadn’t picked up a trick or two from watching Sam develop his own kicked puppy face.  He really needed to find some way of warding it off.

 

“Fine,” he grumbled, then leveled a warning finger at him.  “But after that you turn in, got it?”

 

Dean nodded.  “Five minutes.”  He settled back on the bed and reopened the computer while John crossed to the tiny motel fridge and pulled out a beer.  Dean could almost hear the man’s liver starting to cry. _Ah well,I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere_ , Dean shrugged.  He was in no position to criticize.  John wasn’t the one arguing with clocks.

 

He lay back and stared at the two pictures on the screen, frustration beginning to coalesce in his chest.  An entire week since Sam had been spirited away under his very nose, and this was all they had to go on.  Trying to pin down the two men from the video was like searching for a specific pebble in the middle of the Himalayas.  In other words, practically impossible, and totally infuriating.  They had almost nothing to identify the men, no clue of who they were or why they wanted Sam.  Dean wouldn’t have believed how hard it had been to simply unearth their names.  It was dumb luck they had found even that much, and from there the luck had run out.

 

Cole Bennett and Damien Cawfield were just not there, like they didn’t exist.  There was no record of them anywhere, no birth certificate, home address, car registration.  There were no medical files, nor could they be found on any school registry.  There weren’t even parking tickets in their name.  For all intents and purposes, Bennett and Cawfield had never been born.

 

To be completely wiped from the system without a trace was hard to pull.  Almost impossible.  And these two had nearly managed it, erased but for their names found by some miracle on one of the sketchiest websites Dean had ever been on.  He wasn’t even sure what the original purpose of the site had been.  Who wanted to disappear that badly, and had the means to achieve it?  Whoever these guys were, they knew what they were doing, and it pissed Dean off.  Sammy couldn’t be snatched by some normal, amatuer kidnappers, no.  He couldn’t do anything halfway, and had to catch the attention of professionals.   _When_ they found him, he was going to kick Sam’s ass for this.

 

With so little to go on, John and Dean had been forced to look farther afield.  Over the past three days, they had scoured the city for anyone who had come into contact with either Bennett or Cawfield.  They had been taxing days, both of them aware that the longer they took, the farther away Sam was getting.  So when Dean had- purely by accident- ducked into a crap-hole coffee shop for a caffeine boost, and the kid manning the counter had recognized the blurry picture Dean had been pouring over, Dean could’ve knelt down thanked any god who would listen.  Every day for almost a month, Bennett and Cawfield had come into that coffee shop at three o’clock, ordered two cups of coffee, and sat at the same table overlooking the street.  The fact that the table had an excellent view of Sam’s high school a couple blocks down had not been lost on Dean.  The kid had even remembered the model of the car they had used, a two-door, blue Honda Accord.  It wasn’t much (damn Accords were everywhere it seemed), but it was all they had.

 

After breaking into the city’s surveillance tapes (thank God for Big Brother), they’d finally caught the car and its plates.  It was indeed a blue Honda Accord, complete with the darker haired one, Cole Bennett, in the driver’s seat.

 

But from there the trail had gone cold again, to both Dean and John’s complete chagrin.  As far as they could tell, Bennett and Cawfield- and probably Sam as well- had departed from the city, leaving them with no clues as to where they were headed.

 

It was driving Dean up the walls.  If there was anything he hated more than Sam getting snatched by unknown lunatics, it was knowing Sam was still with said lunatics while he was unable to go after them and mete out some well deserved ass-whooping, big brother style.  Because nobody was allowed to mess with Sam except for him, and these ass-hats seriously needed to be reminded of that.  It was the reason he was running on little more than three hours of sleep and about seven gallons of coffee.  He would sleep when they got Sam back, he reasoned.

 

Although his Dad was probably right, judging by the way the bright screen kept wavering in and out of focus, and how clumsy his fingers were on the keyboard.  Dean stifled a yawn, ignoring the disapproving look John cast him.  He had three more minutes, and dammit he wasn’t going to waste them.

 

The noise of the storm grew louder, the thrum of the rain increasing until it drowned out the tapping from the keys.  John leaned against the counter, nursing his beer and his thoughts.  A sudden burst of obnoxious laughter passed by their room, punctuated by stumbling footsteps and whiskey-soaked murmurs.  A stillness draped itself over the room.

 

“Aha!” Dean yelled, shattering the silence like a brittle sheet of ice.  “Got you, you sons of bitches!”  His outburst startled John into nearly dropping his beer.

 

“You got something?” he asked incredulously, practically flying to Dean’s side.

 

A triumphant grin lit up Dean’s face, the first true smile he’d worn in far too long.  “A traffic camera caught their plates pulling into Newark, Delaware, about a half a day ago.”  He jumped to his feet, more energized than he had been in days.  “If we leave now we can be there in five hours, six at most.”

 

“Hold on, Dean,” John started to say, but Dean bulled right over him.

 

“I’ll just grab my stuff and get the Impala ready.  Most of your things are already in the truck, right?”

 

“Dean, I don’t think-”

 

“Just give me a minute to throw on a fresh shirt, and we can hit the road.  It’s about time we caught a-”

 

“Dean!” John interrupted loudly.  “You need to calm down for a minute and think!”  Dean opened his mouth, confused, but John didn’t pause.  “Look at yourself.  You’re in no condition to drive right now!”

 

“Are you kidding me, Dad?” Dean asked, incredulous.  “We’ve finally got a lead on these guys, and you want to hold up so I can get in a little beauty sleep?  I’m fine!”

 

“I’m not risking you crashing and killing yourself because you were being too damned stubborn to recognize the state you’re in!”

 

Dean spluttered indignantly.  “We know where they are now, Dad!  What if they move on?  We’ll have lost our chance, and for what?”

 

John hesitated, but only for a moment.  “No, Dean.  It’s the middle of the night.  They’ve probably holed up in a motel somewhere.  They won’t be going anywhere ‘till morning.”

 

“But-”

 

“Dean, I’ve already lost one son.  I won’t lose you too.”  If Dean hadn’t known him better, he would have said there was a pleading note to John’s words.  “Two hours Dean, that’s all I’m asking.  Then we hit the road.”

 

Dean looked away, the fight draining out of him.  He really was tired, after all, and without the coffee crutch his eyelids were screaming at him to let them close.  Sighing, he gave a quick, reluctant nod.  John visibly relaxed, and clasped him on the shoulder.

 

“Two hours, then we’ll track these fuckers down.” he assured.

 

Dean carefully placed the laptop on the table and stripped off his shirt, then fell spread-eagled across his bed, not even bothering to climb under the sheets.  Oh God, it felt good.  He was already starting to drift off.

 

“If you don’t wake me up in two hours Dad, I swear to God there’ll be hell to pay,” he mumbled into the pillow.  He heard a quiet chuckle from John, but sleep enfolded him in her soft darkness before he could hear his reply.

 

* * *

 

It shouldn’t be possible for an empty seat to look so inherently wrong.  It was just a seat for God’s sake!  But fuck, that was where Sammy should be, curled up with some geek book and ignoring all of Dean’s witty attempts to start up a conversation.  He did his best to ignore it, staring determinedly at the shadowed road as his headlights cut great swaths through the blackness, but every so often he would find himself drawn to the vacant seat beside him, as though Sam’s absence had left a vacuum behind, pulling his attention towards it whenever his concentration wavered.

 

It was just another reminder that he _so_ didn’t need right now.  It was hard enough simply to drive.  The sleep he had grabbed, while rejuvenating, was nowhere near close enough to what he needed.  He rolled the window down, letting the frigid wind blow through the car, and tried to keep his sight from blurring.

 

Thick night pressed in all around him as he drove, the brilliant stars like twinkling crystals of frost scattered across a velvet backdrop.  Occasional clouds drifted across them, but they had left the fierceness of the storm behind them, and the moon had broken through at last.  Dawn was still a couple of hours away, and the only sounds that came through the open window were the winds of his passage and the throaty hum of the engine beneath him.  Up ahead, the back fender of John’s truck glinted in the Impala’s headlights, the chrome stark against the black body and blacker night.  With the open road stretching out before him, the night wind running cool fingers through his spiky hair, and the Impala’s familiar purr comforting in his ears, Dean was the closest to peaceful he had been in a long while.  If it wasn’t for that unoccupied space at his side, he might have gone so far to say that he was happy.   _Dammit Sammy,_ Dean thought.   _We’re coming to get you, I promise.  You just gotta hold on a little longer._

 

Suddenly the quiet within the car seemed unbearable with only nocturnal sounds to fill it.  Reaching down, Dean chose a tape at random and shoved it into his player.  AC/DC blasted out of his speakers, and he turned it up as high as his eardrums could stand, singing along with Brian Johnson as he belted out the first few lines of “Hell’s Bells”.

 

Dean sang until his throat was aching, and only then did he drop the music down to a more manageable level, blocking out the small voice that sounded an awful lot like Sam bitching him out for blaring his music when he was trying to sleep. Maybe when they got him back, Dean would let him choose what they would listen to.  Only once of course, and just because of the special occasion.  There was no way he would let some new rock crap of Sammy’s replace his treasured collection of tapes.

 

Without warning, John’s truck swerved, so violently he almost drove right off the road.  Tires squealed as he overcorrected, back fender fishtailing wildly.

 

“Sonofabitch!” Dean cursed loudly, jerking the wheel to the side and slamming on the brakes to avoid a collision.  “What the hell, Dad!”  He patted the dashboard distractedly, murmuring an apology to his car for the uncouth treatment, but his attention was fixed on John, who had spilled gracelessly out of his truck and was now leaning against it, either not noticing or not caring that it was idling crookedly in the middle of the highway.  Even as Dean watched, John seemed to crumple, sliding down to sit on the road as though his legs had given out.

 

“Dad?” Dean called, a brush of trepidation accompanying him as he climbed out of the car.  “What’s going on?  What’s the matter?”

 

John didn’t move to acknowledge him.  His head was buried in his hands, face obscured.  Dean was bewildered.  His dad had seemed so on top of things- well, as much as one could be considering the situation.  But now, with his shoulders hunched, legs splayed out before him, John was the image of despair. _It finally got to be too much_ , Dean thought in horror.   _It’s taken awhile, but it’s broken him_.

 

“Dad?” he asked again, softer this time.  He came closer, and faintly heard John whisper something inaudible through his fingers, still staring unseeing at the ground.  “What?  Dad, I don’t-” Dean began, but then John raised his head to meet his eyes, and the words died in his mouth.  

 

In his opinion, Dean knew his father better than pretty much anyone.  He had practically lived in the same car as the man for sixteen years after all.  He had seen John in every possible way: the grief and mindless drive for revenge after Mary died, the pride when he looked at his sons (even if Sam never seemed to notice), his rare displays of compassion, and just his day-to-day intelligence, determination, and brusque manner.  Hunting with his father for years, seeing him shoot a werewolf in the chest, or thrown across a room by a ghost, it was impossible for Dean not to get to know him.  Wasn’t there some saying that a man’s true character shows itself when he is about to die?  Something like that anyway.  So Dean felt he was pretty justified in saying that yes, he knew his father.

 

But now he wasn’t so sure, because he had never seen John quite like this.  The best word Dean could think of to describe the emotion swimming in John’s gaze was _anguished_.  Dean almost took a step back from its intensity, because his dad wasn’t supposed to be like this.  He wasn’t supposed to radiate hopelessness from his very pores, or drop his head back into his hands with such an air of abject misery.  His dad was supposed to be the strong one, the man who could fix any problem no matter how large, not this beaten figure at his feet.

 

“Dad, tell me what the fuck is going on!” Dean demanded, panicking a little, and trying to snap John out of whatever daze had caught hold of him.  It appeared to work, at least in part.  A shudder ran down John’s body, but he straightened slightly from his bent over position and blew out a quivering breath.

 

“Josh just called,” he finally said, in a hollow rasp.  Dean stilled, a thousand possibilities flashing through his mind.   _Oh God, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, I know it, he’s dead!_ his brain shrieked, repeating it in a maddening loop over and over in his mind.   _No he’s not,_ he growled inwardly.   _So shut your fucking mouth._

“He told me he found a group, almost a business I guess, and that Bennett and Cawfield are employed there.”  John’s voice got, if possible, even lower, and Dean had to lean in to have a hope of hearing.  “And this company, or whatever the hell it is...”  John trailed off, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.

 

“What, Dad?  What do they do!” Dean burst out, impatience overflowing, mixed with more than a little fear.

 

“They... they...”  John couldn’t seem to be able to form the words, let alone force them off his tongue.  “They take kids and... and they-”  He broke off again, blanching.  Dean only realized he was holding his breath when his lungs started to burn.  With a calm he didn’t feel, he made himself exhale, then inhale, feeling like he was about to explode from the apprehension, and exercising every bit of self-control he had not to grab his father and shake the rest out of him.  Instead, he restrained himself and waited till John could gather his thoughts.  When he did speak, it was a pained whisper, a rush of air as though he needed to say it before he lost his composure.  

 

“Josh said that they take kids and sell them.  They sell them for-” he choked, and stumbled over the end of the sentence.  “For pleasure,” he finished, closing his eyes.

 

Dean stood shocked, the words sounding warped in his ears.  He must not have heard it right.  He _couldn’t_ have heard it right, because there was no way, no way in hell  that was why Sammy had been taken.  “You mean, like sex trafficking,” he said dumbly, not fully processing the idea.  It- it couldn’t be.  Not _Sammy_ -

 

John gave a kind of gasp, fingers twisting themselves through his hair.  Dean stared at him, then shook his head and stepped back.  “He’s wrong,” he almost pled.  “Josh must’ve got it wrong.  Sam’s not-”  He couldn’t complete the sentence.  “No,” he repeated.

 

“Dean...” John started, but Dean cut him off.

 

“No, Dad!” he barked angrily.  “There isn’t-  Sam’s _not_ -”  His thoughts were colliding with each other, sliding around, making no sense.  A trembling was overtaking him, and he wasn’t sure if it was disbelief, fright, rage, or some combination thereof.  He spun on his heel and bolted back to his car, unable to stand John’s pitying expression any longer.  He slammed the door and peeled away from the shoulder, darted around the truck still parked drunkenly in the middle of the road, and tore off down the deserted highway.

 

A deafening roar filled his ears.  His foot was pressed almost to the floor, and the speedometer needle was creeping higher and higher, but Dean didn’t care.  The motion of the car, and the wind slicing at his skin were no longer soothing.  Far from calming him, these familiar sensations only served to remind him that _Sam wasn’t there_.  He wasn’t sitting beside him, safe in the passenger seat, or telling Dean to slow down before he crashed and killed them both.  He was gone, and the ones responsible were going to-  Had maybe already _done_ -

 

“God dammit!” Dean shouted, striking the steering wheel with the flat of his palm.   _This was my fault!_ he thought, agonized.  Why had he let Sam walk alone that day?  Why hadn’t he noticed sooner that the kid hadn’t come home, that something must be amiss?   _How could you let them take you, Sam!?_  The question came with a burst of anger.   _We taught you better than that!_

No.  Dean stopped himself.  This wasn’t Sam’s fault.  He’d seen the video, and Sam had done the best he could.  Dean felt ashamed for even entertaining the idea.  No, if it was anyone’s fault, it was his own.  For letting the kid go off alone, for _still_ not being able to catch the bastards who’d taken him...  How could he ever look Sam in the eye again, when he was to blame for allowing this to happen?

 

Dean’s breathing was slowing.  The emotions were there, of that there was no doubt, his white-knuckled grip on the wheel was evidence enough, but his head was clearing with the certainty of guilt.  This was _his_ fault, _his_ responsibility, and it was _his_ job to get his little brother back.  Losing it now wouldn’t help Sam.  Dean didn’t have the right to lose it.  It was difficult, but he eventually managed to subdue the burning river of anger, self-recrimination, and horror, so that rather than exploding out of him in scorching waves, it bubbled and popped just beneath his skin.  Still present and still dangerous, yet contained for now.

 

Muttering another apology to the Impala, Dean eased his foot off the accelerator, and the blur of trees and grassy median separated into distinguishable features.  The howl of the engine quieted, letting strains of music fill the cab from the tape player he had forgotten to turn off.

 

 

_I’ll be guided in, we’ll be ridin’_

_Given what you got to me._

_Don’t you struggle, don’t you fight,_

_Don’t you worry ‘cause it’s your turn tonight!_

 

 

His momentary composure cracked as Dean’s eyes shot open.

 

 

_Let me put my love into you babe,_

_Let me put my love on the line._

_Let me put my love into you babe._

_Let me cut your cake with my knife!_

 

 

Nausea churned in Dean’s gut, and for a minute he thought he might be sick.  The next instant, he _knew_ he was going to be sick.  The smell of burnt rubber filled the air as he skidded to a halt, threw himself out of the car, and promptly emptied his stomach all over the bushes lining the side of the road.

 

By the time he was done, John’s truck had pulled up next to him.  Dean remained on hands and knees, shaking, as a car door opened then closed.  A large hand rested comfortingly on the back of his neck and stayed there, letting him draw strength from John’s unfaltering presence until he felt able to stand without his legs buckling.  He turned, and met John’s somber eyes.

 

“I’m alright now,” he said, as though daring John to contradict it.  “I’m good.”

 

    John nodded.  “We’re getting him back, Dean.  No matter what, we’re getting him back.  I promise.”

 

“Yeah, I know.”  Dean mustered up a grin, and if it looked more like a baring of teeth, well, it was the best he had right then.  “Let’s go find these sons of bitches.”

 

Moments later, the sound of two revving engines broke the soft noises of branches rustling in the light breeze, and the two cars disappeared down the dark highway, the red glow of their tail lights glimmering like live coals until they were swallowed by the greedy shadows.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely artwork is credited to 3DBABE1999! She is awesome, and this story would not be the same without her!

_Hot breath ghosting over my skin. Hands grasping at my wrists, pushing me down, a heavy weight falling across me. I lash out blindly, but hit only air. Blackness, sticky and clotted, oozes into my mouth and nose, filling my throat, my ears, my eyes. I’m choking in it, drowning in it, and all the while fingers are tearing at my clothes, intent on taking what I desperately don’t want to give._ Stop! _I try to scream, but the blackness is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, flooding my lungs and twisting under my skin. My clothes are gone, a hand stroking my chest, brushing over my hips. I can’t move. The blackness wraps around my neck, tighter and tighter, and the touches are moving lower and lower over my exposed skin... Make it stop, make it stop, make it_ stop _-!_

I woke with a start and a smothered gasp, my eyes flying open. Phantom caresses lingered on my shoulders and chest, fading reluctantly as I fought back to consciousness.

The room was empty. Where Cheverill had been cuddled to my side were only tangled sheets. I lifted my head, and found that the wire around my wrists was gone as well. My shoulders were stiff and sore from holding their position for so long, protesting as I brought my arms down to my sides and looked around. The door to the hallway was closed, no sound reaching me in the quiet but that of my own breathing. A thick mist pressed against the windows, fat droplets clinging to the glass like barnacles to the side of a ship. The forest was completely hidden from view, leafy boughs lost somewhere in the fog. I let my head thump back onto the pillow and tried to feel some measure of relief. I was alone, given a moment to collect my thoughts, to find another way to make my escape.

The feelings wouldn’t come. Maybe I was in shock, or maybe I was going through withdrawal from all the drugs Cole and Damien had pumped into me. Whatever the case, my emotions seemed to have been temporarily put on hold. I stared dully up at the ceiling, tracing the whorling patterns hidden in the cream-colored paint, and wondered why I should bother moving at all. It wasn’t like it would change anything. It was time to face the facts.

Cheverill was bigger than me, stronger than me. He had God knew how many people working for him, all either unaware or uncaring about his kinky, fucked up sexual preferences, and all perfectly willing to drag me back by the hair if I did manage to get out of this damned room. I probably couldn’t take three steps outside the house without tripping some security alarm, not that there was anyplace to go even once I could get into the trees. I was weak from days of confinement and not enough food, with no way to contact Dean or Dad. Oh, and lets not forget, I was wearing cuffs that fucking shocked me senseless whenever I so much as breathed wrong.

Talk about the odds being stacked. Resignation crushed down on me as these thoughts bounced around my brain. It struck me there that this would become my life now if I didn’t do anything, trapped as a plaything in a gilded cage. I couldn’t depend on Dean and Dad to come swooping in to save me. Even if they did manage to pick up my trail, it could be weeks before they pieced together where I was, and there was no way I could wait that long. Just the implication of another night here was enough to make my breathing stutter. I couldn’t do that. Not again.

_-His finger pushing inside of me, teasing, only up to the first knuckle. “I really should have done this the first time,” he whispers to me, like it’s some intimate secret he’s dying to share. “But I was just so excited to try you out. I’ll be sure to prepare you better in the future.” The burning pain spreading as his finger forces its way inside me, blood and come smearing across my skin when he adds a second, then a third-_

Somewhere close by, a door opened and shut loudly. I snapped to awareness, nearly jumping out of my skin as footsteps hurried down the hallway outside my door. Heartbeat suddenly pounding, I closed my eyes and took in a few halting breaths. _It’s okay_ , I reassured myself in a voice that sounded uncannily like Dean. _He’s gone now. Just relax. Don’t think about it and then you can figure a way out of here._

_He'll be back soon though_ , I thought despairingly.

_Well you'll just have to get away before he does. There's gotta be a way out somewhere_ , Imaginary Dean told me firmly.

_What if there is no way out though?_ I argued. _What if I’m stuck here forever, with him? I can’t do this by myself!_

_Yes, you can. All you gotta do is keep trying. He has to have slipped up somehow._

_But-!_

_Self pity won't get you anywhere, Sammy_.

Fuck, I was losing it. I actually felt a little sheepish and had to consciously stop myself from apologizing to a figment of my imagination. Imaginary Dean was right though. Or was I right, since technically he was a part of me? Whatever. Wallowing wasn’t exactly my most productive course of action.

Groaning, because Goddammit I hurt _everywhere_ , I sat up gingerly and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my ass deciding now was the perfect time to send pain spiking through my lower back. I hissed and squeezed my eyes shut, feeling tears threatening to gather. I’d really never thought about how much it would _hurt_. Not that I’d ever thought I’d be in this situation, ever.

I almost fell when I stood up completely, and had to grab the bed to keep my legs from folding under me. Even with the extra support my muscles were trembling. A confident wind probably could have blown me over. I sucked in another breath, quelling the rising nausea and locking my knees in place. The bathroom door could only be a couple feet away, but right then I was realistically doubtful about my ability to walk that far. Curling back up in bed and falling blissfully asleep was sounding better by the moment. I half-turned to crawl back onto the mattress, just for a minute or so -that’s what I was telling myself anyway- before I caught sight of the large, reddish-brown blotch staining the area where I had been lying.

_-Blood soaking through the sheets, spreading out like a gory halo around me. At least he no longer has to thrust his way in quite so hard, though in some distant corner of my mind I wonder if I’ll just bleed to death by the end of the night. That’s possible, right?_

_A hand pressing hard against my balls brings me back, and I kick out feebly, even though I know it’s useless._

_“Didn’t I tell you to enjoy yourself, Samuel?” he asks me, letting me go only to bite down just below my jaw, hard enough to break the skin. When he leans up to kiss me, roughly sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, I can taste the saltiness of my own blood run over my tongue-_

I hurled myself away from the bed, forcing back the stream of memories and shoving them as far behind my mental barricade as I could. I ended up on my hands and knees, retching, acutely aware of the tightness all over my ass and thighs from where blood and spunk had mixed and dried to a clingy coating. I needed to shower. Now.

I’m not sure how I made it all the way to the bathroom, but somehow I was leaning on the long counter, the tiles cool under my feet. I had to take a break, partly to get a handle on the ache radiating down my legs and up my back, and partly to figure out how in the hell I was going to actually shower when I could barely stand on my own.

Well, it would be a challenging experience, to say the least.

Once I had hobbled over to the shower (an impressive feat in itself), a film of sweat had sprung up on my forehead, and the nausea was back in full force. I can’t imagine what I would have done if I had still been wearing clothes. Taking off a pair of pants had never seemed like such a task. Luckily, if you could see it that way, I was still naked from when Cheverill had torn mine away.

_-”Get off of me!” I shriek, trying to twist away from him yet again, but he just laughs, easily pinning me down. His thumbs stroke over my flaccid length, patiently coaxing me until I’m half-hard between his fingers. I don’t even need to pretend this doesn’t feel good anymore. I can’t come again so soon, but I’m responding anyway, and he smiles as I whimper low in my throat, yanking at the wire fastened around my wrists-_

The water warmed up almost immediately. This shower was far more expensive than one I’d ever used before. There were three shower heads instead of one, the metal shining and clean and free of even a speck of rust. The tiled floor and walls were pristine, no part of the swirling blue and white pattern they created marred by stains or chipped edges. A shelf on the far side of it held clusters of colorful bottles, and I couldn’t conceive how anyone could need them all. There was even a glass door that swung shut, rather than a bar and curtain. I thought about all of that as I stepped under the spray of water, stubbornly keeping my mind from straying to anything but the present.

I don’t think a shower had ever felt so good in my life. I put out a hand to steady myself and snatched up a bar of soap with the other. The next few minutes were spent scrubbing furiously at my skin while I tried and failed not to notice what a mess I was. Dried red and white streaks were everywhere. Spreading outward up my chest and neck were more bruises, bites, and truly spectacular hickeys than I cared to acknowledge, much less count. They stung bitterly as the water rushed over them. My right shoulder was twinging, probably from when I had landed on it, and it was needless to say that each of these complaints paled next to the jagged fire that ripped through my insides every time I moved.

Cautiously, I reached behind me and ran light fingers over the small hole. They came back spotted with blood, pink droplets dripping off my hand and staining the tile beneath me. I stared at the ruddy water swirling around my feet, almost not realizing it when my throat closed up and a telltale prickle started behind my eyes. I grabbed for the soap again, rubbing it frantically over my thighs and groin, but I could still feel his semen on my skin, his hands holding me down. I choked back a sob, reaching for the shower knob and turning the temperature as hot as I could stand. Scalding water poured down all around me and I leaned into it, desperate for it to wash away everything Cheverill had done to me.

_-When he finally comes, I’m almost glad to feel the hot burst of liquid filling me yet again. Please God, let this be the last time. I don't know how much more of this I can stand. He pulls his softening dick out of me, and surely he’s done. There is only so much stamina a man can have._

_He sits up and stares at me through the dark, one hand resting casually on my inner thigh. With the other, he traces along a line of reddening bite marks he has left scattered across my sternum. I shift weakly, unable to completely stifle the pained grunt as the movement jars my new injuries._

_“It will get easier Samuel,” Cheverill croons, almost sounding sympathetic. “I’m afraid I moved slightly faster than I should have tonight.” His fingers tickle over my hip._

_“Go...to...Hell...” I whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the rustle of sheets. I think my raspy croak surprises both of us. Not my most original quip, but it slips out before I can think about it._

_Cheverill is quiet for a minute, and I’m almost sure he is going to shock me -or maybe just go in for another round- when he throws his head back, laughing. He can’t seem to stop, and several moments pass before he pulls his composure back and refocuses on me, still grinning._

_“Ah Samuel, you might be more of a project than I anticipated. How delightful.”_

_It’s hard, oh it’s hard, but I collect as much saliva as I can and spit it into his face. The cuffs go off a second later, and when the pain clears it’s to the knowledge that his hand is once again wrapped around my dick._

_“Such manners, Samuel,” Cheverill chides, squeezing just enough to make me gasp and jerk up into his hand. “Must I really go over this lesson again?”-_

Water was splashing down all around me. I don’t know when I slid to my knees, but somehow they were pressed to the smooth tiles, my arms wrapped around my chest as though to prevent the wrenching sobs from shaking me to pieces. Because dammit, I was crying like a whiny, six-year-old kid, there was no denying it. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with the water and the snot my nose was leaking everywhere. My chest was heaving, letting out short, hiccuping breaths that caught in my throat and stuck there. If Cheverill saw me now, having a complete fit in his shower...

Christ, I needed to pull myself together, but I was full out bawling, and some part of me was so relieved to finally let go that I couldn’t bring myself to stop. All the stress, all the fear, the uncertainty since Cole and Damien had snatched me, it was too much for me. I knelt there, letting the water cascade around me, and cried until I had no more tears to give.

When it was over I felt drained. Slowly, I uncurled from my position and stood up, amazed that the shower hadn’t yet run cold. It was a funny thing to notice, given the circumstances. I lifted my face under the spray and let it wash away any remaining tears, then shut the water off and stepped out of the shower.

The bathroom was hazy with steam. I looked around for a towel, and my gaze landed on a small, folded pile resting on the damp countertop. I must have missed it when I stumbled in earlier.

A folded sheet of paper was lying on the top. I picked it up and saw _Samuel_ written across the front in a neat, confident hand. I swallowed hard, trying to allay the fine tremors travelling up my arms that made the paper shiver in my grip. Dammit, it was a freaking note! There was no way I should be afraid of a freaking note. I snorted, attempting to convince myself that I was fine, and opened it.

                            Samuel,

Thank you for a most engaging first night. I look forward to all the ones awaiting us. I will be gone for most of the day, and I suggest you shower while I am out. There is a towel provided for you as well as some clean clothes. They are your size, and I expect you to be wearing them when I return. Do not think that my absence gives you any permission to attempt to leave. The sooner you accept your new liberties, the happier you will be, I assure you.

                                                                             Until tonight,

                                                                                Your Master

A laugh bubbled out of me as I reached the end of the letter, though absolutely nothing about this situation could be funny. I crumpled the paper in my shaking hand and dropped it to the countertop, watching as it bounced off and landed on the floor. He couldn’t be serious, right? Except that I knew perfectly well that he was, even when he signed it as “your master.”

What was almost as frightening was that he could be completely sane. I might have understood his behavior if he had been a few fries short of a happy meal, but now I had to conclude that he was just a sadistic bastard with enough money fuel his fucked up fetishes. I laughed again. Fucking awesome.

I dried off quickly with the towel on top of the pile, a soft, fluffy thing that anywhere else I would have prized as a rare treat. Afterwards, I swiped a corner of it across the clouded mirror and took a moment to examine myself fully. Even without the obvious marks bruising my chest and groin, I looked awful. My eyes were swollen and red from my long bout of crying, a wild, cornered demeanour reflecting out of them. There was an edge of wariness to the set of my shoulders that had never been there before, as though I would bolt at any sudden disturbance. I could almost have been a feral animal, backed into a corner and unable to hide its panic.

A familiar clogged feeling constricted my throat, and I blinked hurriedly at the renewed burn behind my eyes. No, I wouldn’t cry, not again. I had already had my moment to indulge myself, but enough was enough. I wouldn’t give up after one damn night. I didn’t care what Cheverill threatened, I was finding a way to escape, and sniveling wasn’t going to help me. I was done with it.

I turned away from the mirror and picked up what remained of the pile. Apparently, Cheverill’s definition of “clothes” was one pair of jeans with nothing else, not even boxers. As much as I was loathe to wear anything he had chosen for me, the only alternative was walking around naked, and there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

I donned the jeans, and it immediately became clear that when Cheverill said “they are your size,” what he really meant was, “they should be indecently stretched over your crotch and ass.” The sleeves weren’t too bad, if slightly tight in places, but once they reached the area around my groin, the jeans seemed to lose a quarter of the cloth they would have needed to fit normally. Even without an erection, the bulge in front where my cock was pressed against the fabric was impossible to miss.

Oh no. No way in fucking hell was I wearing these. They made me look like some kind of cross between a stripper and a streetside prostitute. Maybe I could find the pants I’d had on yesterday if they hadn’t been torn too badly. I didn’t care that Cheverill wanted me to wear these. He could go screw himself. I wasn’t afraid of what he might do if he knew I had disobeyed him. I was definitely _not_. I was going to go find my pants from yesterday, and he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

I had only opened the bathroom door about halfway, still silently giving myself a confidence boosting pep talk, when I realized that someone was standing right in front of it and my heart nearly stopped dead in my chest. A strangled, “Holy _fuck!_ ” burst from me, and I slammed the door as hard as I could, feeling my carefully contained terror break free and smash my composure to bits. A sob hitched in my chest as I fumbled for the latch, blind panic creeping like fog over my eyes. There had to be a razor in here right? Maybe I could find one before Cheverill got the door unlocked, or I could break the mirror and use a shard of it as a knife! My attention skittered around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon, every nerve aware of how vulnerable I was with nothing to defend myself.

A heavy fist knocked on the door. Almost hyperventilating, I threw myself against it, already imagining Cheverill forcing it open, triggering my collar and cuffs until he could pin me down on the tiled floor and-

 

                                                                                                   

 

“Kid! Kid, goddamnit, open up!” The voice reached me through the door. An impatient voice that was low and businesslike. A voice that was distinctly not Cheverill’s. “C’mon kid, I haven’t got all day!”

It wasn’t him, it was okay, it wasn’t him. _It wasn't him_. Not yet anyway. But it still wasn't him and I was safe for now, because it wasn't him. But then a loud thud echoed from the other side of the door, reminding me sharply that Cheverill wasn’t the only thing I had to worry about. I cleared my throat and, doing my best to sound aggressive and tough, called, “who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Carter,” the guy replied, and I flashed back to a tall man slinging me to the ground in front of the house, his beefy arms wrapping around my neck until I blacked out. I wedged myself even more firmly against the door.

“What do you want?” I snarled. “You hoping to have your own turn with me too, is that it?”

“No,” he said immediately. His tone grew softer as he added, “look, I just need to check you over, make sure nothing’s been hurt too bad, alright?”

I leaned my head back against the door, feeling my eyes starting to sting. No, damn it I said I was done crying. “Of course,” I said bitterly. “After all, blood is such a bitch to keep washing out of the sheets.”

“I’m sorry,” Carter said after a moment, and to my surprise he actually sounded like it. “but I’ve got to get this done and this can be painless for everyone if you cooperate. Now open the door so I don’t have to use your collar to make you.”

Fuck, he probably would too. Still, I held back, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep so that I didn’t have to deal with all this crap. I heard Carter sigh, and hastily pulled the door open. This wasn’t giving in, I told myself. This was knowing which battles to fight.

“Just get it over with,” I growled, scowling at him with a bravado I did not feel. I did my best not to blush as his gaze skipped over my bruised chest and skimpy jeans. Though his expression didn't change, I was almost sure I saw his jaw tighten subtly.

“I’ll need you to take off your pants,” he coughed, strangely contrite for someone willing to work for a pedophile. “Then lie facedown on the bed. Please.”

I glared. This sounded an awful lot like Carter just wanted me in a good position for an easy fuck. I edged back a step, half considering another flight to the safety of the bathroom. Carter noticed, and threw his hands up irritably. “Christ kid, I’m not going to hurt you! Unless you make this difficult, which you’re about to do!” Gee, that was reassuring. He took in my skeptical expression and rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to try to attack you either, so relax.”

Yeah, right. Did he seriously think I was that gullible? When I made no move towards the bed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, metallic-colored object, almost like a remote, and held it threateningly where I could see it. “Listen kid. I’d rather not use this, but I’ve got other things to do. So you either undress and lay down on the bed, or I’ll turn on your collar and do it for you. Your choice.”

“Fuck you,” I gritted out, hating myself and hating him and hating the whole screwed up situation even as I started towards the bed. My hands felt cold as I unbuttoned my jeans and slid them off. By contrast, my face burned in humiliation, the sheets soft against my stomach when I bent over them. My face was inches away from the mattress, and the reek of blood and sweat caught in the blankets was probably going to make me sick unless Carter hurried his ass up.

“That’s good. Stay like that.” I sensed Carter come up behind to me, and couldn’t stop myself from flinching as his hands spread me open. Oh God, what if he was lying and he really did want a turn with me? He wouldn’t get a better opportunity. The light touch of a finger at my entrance made me jerk, and I heard a distracted “sorry,” from over my shoulder. My own pulse was loud in my ears, and every miniscule shift Carter made seemed magnified by a thousand. I kept waiting to hear the sound of his zipper sliding down, feel his blunt head replace the finger, and if he was going to do it why didn’t he just do it already before my nerves couldn’t take any more?

“Okay, nothing looks too bad.” Carter let go and stepped back. My breath left me in a rush and I twisted away from him, tugging my jeans back up around my hips and not entirely ready to believe that was all he was going to do. But he let me go, watching with the barest hint of sadness as I redid the buttons with unsteady fingers.

“Is that it?” I asked roughly, not meeting his eyes. “‘Cause, you know, I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, and everything.” Wow, that was some bad humor. At least I was trying.

“Yeah, that’s it. There's a bit of tearing, and I'll have to put some ointment on it periodically so it doesn't get infected." I flushed again. My face must have been a blazing scarlet. If this guy thought he was getting near me with ointment of any kind, someone needed to set him straight as soon as possible. "Some bruising, but overall you’ll be fine.”  I repressed a snort. He hesitated for a moment, watching me, then continued. “You’ll be sore for a bit, and sitting probably won’t be too comfortable. I’ll tell Mr. Cheverill to go a little easier next time so nothing gets worse.”

“Right,” I whispered. _Next time_. “Awesome. Thanks.” I still wouldn’t look at him, and after an awkward pause he headed for the door.

“For what it’s worth kid, I really am sorry,” he murmured. Then he was gone, and I was alone. Again.

 

* * *

 

 

God, Dean loved motels. They never had the good sense to buy locks that, you know, locked. Any amateur with a hairpin could open them with enough determination. Well, it was either lack of sense or their complete apathy towards the welfare of their guests. Either way, the lock clicked open so easily Dean almost felt abashed for giving his tools such menial work.

“Got it?” John hissed to him.

“Dad please, I’m a professional. Don’t insult me.” Dean gave a quick nod to his father and slipped inside the now-open motel room. Josh pushed himself away from the wall where he’d been leaning, nonchalantly blocking the view of the door from the rest of the parking lot, and followed.

Inside, it was dark. A digital clock glowed weakly from somewhere on the right, but the curtains were drawn, shutting out the icy moonlight. As Dean’s eyes adjusted, he could make out two beds just to the side of the door, and past that the obscure shapes of an ill-equipped kitchenette. To his left was a table and a couple of hard backed chairs. A standard issue motel room then, no different than what he was used to.

“Okay, let’s move fast,” John whispered, nothing but a black silhouette at his side. “We don’t know when they’ll be back.”

They split up, each taking a side of the room. Dean went to the bed farthest from the door first, which was noticeably more messy. Riffling through the crumpled blankets, scratchy sheets yielding nothing but stains of questionable natures, Dean would’ve bet this one was Cawfield’s. Covering his flashlight with one hand, he sank to his knees and shone it under the bed. The dampened light swept across muddy brown carpet, but nothing else.

“Anything yet?” John’s hushed voice asked from over by the kitchenette.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Frustrated, Dean clambered back to his feet and reached for the table situated between the two beds, sliding open the drawers and poking through the papers inside.

After the episode on the highway, the drive to Newark had passed in a blur. Trying to wrap your head around the fact that your little brother had been kidnapped by modern day slavers wasn’t something you could reconcile yourself with in a few minutes. Dean had spent the entire trip agonizing over everything he’d ever heard of sex trafficking, and swearing to himself every time an image popped into his head of Sam, on his knees or strapped to a bed, the shadow of some guy falling over him, just before Sam’s shirt was cut off and- This was usually where Dean stopped himself as he realized what he was doing. Fucking imagination.

Once they had rolled into Newark, it hadn’t been too hard to track Cawfield and Bennett to the little motel they were staying at. John and Dean had staked out the room for a good four hours before seeing the two men leave, much to Dean’s malignance. He was all for kicking down the door and maybe shooting out the two men’s kneecaps. That way they couldn’t run away until they’d spilled everything they knew about Sam.

Both John and Dean thought it unlikely that Sam would still be with Bennett and Cawfield. They had stayed put for nearly a week after catching him, and the only reason for that would be to sell him off as rapidly as they could. Besides, Dean highly doubted that the trunk of Bennett’s little Accord would be practical for carting kids from one place to another.

So while it grated Dean to sit leisurely while his little brother could be halfway across the country, he understood John’s order to wait. If they could find something in the motel room telling them where to find Sam, it would be a whole lot quicker than attempting to get it out of the two men, although less satisfying. But that was only if the room had anything to offer. So far, all Dean had come up with was a pad of motel stationary and the listing for the local Dominoes.

But hey, they might get to do this the fun way after all. Dean straightened from his examination of the second bed, only to drop back to the floor at John’s urgent command.

“Dean, down!”

The rumble of a car engine punctuated the end of the sentence. Seconds later, headlights shone through the wispy curtains, and the muffled crackle of tires over asphalt sounded from the parking lot.

“Quick, follow me.” John’s shadow ghosted past him. They lined up on either side of the door, guns gleaming like wicked promises in their hands. The headlights cut out, then two doors slammed, one after the other.

“I’m telling you man, this is crap!” an insolent voice complained, filtering without difficulty through the paper thin walls. “Why the hell are we running another job so soon? If Julien wants another sale he can go out and fucking do it himself!”  Another man, too low to be heard, interjected something in a soothing tone. “No, I’m not going to keep my voice down!” the first said angrily. “This is ‘cause he’s pissed how slow business has been, and now he’s takin’ it out on us!”

“Well, what would you rather do, hmm?” the second man asked, this time close enough that Dean could make him out. He sounded exasperated, as though they’d already had this conversation a hundred times before and his tolerance had run out somewhere in the forties.

Keys jangled as the first man answered. “Well we could stop taking so much of his shit, for one!” Sickly light spilled into the room from the sputtering street lamps outside. Dean’s grip on his gun tightened as the first man stepped into the room. “You’d think he’d be happier after we got rid of that last pain-in-the-ass. We gave him a nice little payday, and how does he thank us? By sending us out to-”

He was still whining when the butt of John’s gun cracked into the back of his head. He collapsed to the floor without a sound, the flow of words abruptly cut off, and it was most likely that more than anything that clued his partner in to the fact that something was wrong. The fluorescent glow from the parking lot sparkled off a gold earring, the whites of Bennett’s eyes clearly visible as he spun on his heel and bolted. Dean cursed and took off after him, trusting his dad to handle the other.

Bennett didn’t even make it to the end of the row of doors before Dean caught him in a flying tackle. They crashed to the ground with Dean on top. The guy’s knee came up between his legs, and pain exploded through Dean’s crotch. He gasped but held on, trying to smack the other man’s head back against the concrete. The gun had flown from his hand when they’d landed, and both saw it at the same time. There was a mad scramble; Dean got in a few solid punches to Bennett’s face, but the guy's elbow came free and hit him just over his eye. Dean jammed his forearm into the guys windpipe in retaliation, leaving Bennett stunned and gaping for air. While he was occupied, Dean rolled sideways, fingers closing around the handle of the gun, and brought the muzzle up to focus right in the middle of the guy’s chest.

“Don’t move!” he barked. “Unless you want your guts spread out over the concrete!” Bennett froze, panting harshly through what looked like a broken nose. Eyeing him warily, in case he tried to make another run for it, Dean grabbed a handful of Bennett's shirt and yanked him upright, gun pressed unwaveringly to his stomach.

"Now, you're going to do exactly what I say so I don't blow a hole through your intestines, right?" Dean said, cocking the hammer pointedly. The guy nodded furiously, flinching as the gun dug into his abdomen. “Good,” Dean said, and punched the guy square in the jaw, knocking him out cold. “Fucking dick.”

Another reason Dean loved motels was that nobody ever interfered in other people’s business. He’d always speculated on what the people watching would say: Hey, was that a fistfight going on outside? Holy hell, did that guy have a _gun_? Oh well, I’m sure they’ll work it out. It’s probably just a friendly little spat. Dean got Bennett back to their room without anyone stopping him and asking why the hell he was hauling a bruised and bleeding man across the sidewalk with a pistol tucked under his jacket. It didn’t hurt that Bennett and Cawfield had chosen the least frequented motel in Newark.

John looked up as Dean entered. His eyes immediately fell on the bruise where Bennett’s elbow had clipped him, and he was across the room in the time it took to blink, tilting Dean’s face towards the light. “How bad is it?” he asked roughly.

Dean shook him off. “Dad, seriously? I’m fine!” He prodded the bruise gingerly. “I don’t think this will kill me after all the times I’ve been chucked through walls.”

“Right. Sorry.” John turned away, looking slightly embarrassed. “You have the other one?”

“Of course.”

“Bring him over here,” he ordered, bending to recheck the knots around Cawfield’s wrists. Dean complied, and soon they had Bennett and Cawfield bound tightly to chairs placed back-to-back in the middle of the room. Ropes snaked around their wrists, chests, and ankles, and as a final touch, John tore up part of a sheet and stuffed a wad of the cloth in each man’s mouth.

“So these are the bastards,” Dean said when John had finished. John merely grunted. Dean glanced over at him, then had to look away at once. He fervently hoped his dad would never look at him with the expression he was wearing now, because the unbridled fury smoldering in his eyes was nothing short of terrifying. The phrase “glaring daggers” didn’t even come close to describing it. Maybe “glaring Hell’s wrath,” or "glaring nuclear warheads," or "glaring Hell's wrath in the form of nuclear warheads" would have been more accurate.

Ducking his head, Dean averted his gaze and turned it on Bennett and Cawfield instead. They were just as they had appeared in the pictures. Cawfield was blonde and muscular, arms bulging from rolled up sleeves and sideburns running down each side of his face. His chin was resting on his chest, giving Dean the view of a raw lump on the back of his skull where he’d gotten friendly with the handle of John’s gun. Bennett was smaller and darker, face already puffing from his scuffle with Dean. Blood dripped from his nose over narrow lips and a pointed chin.

Loathing surged within Dean as he appraised the two men. These were the sons of bitches responsible for everything he and his family were going through. Especially Sam. Whatever state they found his little brother in, it was these fuckers fault. And if Sam was anything other than perfect when they found him, he was going to come back and put a bullet in both of their heads. That was if he didn’t do it now purely on principle. Who knew how many kids had disappeared because of these two? How many families ruined? Dean really wished they’d wake up soon. They needed to be taught a thorough lesson in remorse.

He was so absorbed in fantasies of how he would make the two men talk that John had to snap his fingers in front of his face to get his attention. “Dean! Come on, stay with me. We’ve still got some work to do. Can you go check out the car?”

“Car.. right, right the... what?”

“The car!” John repeated impatiently. “I need you to go check out their car, see if you can find anything.”

“Oh! Right. Sorry sir,” Dean said, properly chagrined.

“I’ll finish up in here,” John continued. “If they look like they’re wakin’ up I’ll call you back in, okay?”

“Yes sir!” He caught the keys John threw him one-handed and got to his feet. The night breeze was chilling as he shut the door behind him. Trapped by the walls of the motel, it swirled in confused eddies, dragging twigs and dirt behind it, grabbing at the flaps of his jacket. Overhead, the stars were small and dim, shy in the face of the harsh city lights. Dean shivered. The whoosh of cars passing on the interstate only a couple hundred yards away accompanied him as he unlocked Bennett’s blue Accord and swung inside, relieved to be out of the cutting wind.

The cab was relatively clean, both for trash and any useful findings. He found a registration for one “James Cooper” in the glovebox, and a couple of fast food wrappers dumped in the passenger side footwell. The car was a tiny two seater, and he spent all of five minutes hunting through it. When he finally climbed back into the open air, Dean was freezing and antsy. The bastards wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave anything incriminating lying around. This would be so much faster if they just woke them up and used some good old intimidation tactics instead. _It’s not like they wouldn’t deserve it_ , Dean groused to himself as he went around to check out the trunk.

There were three duffel bags inside. Dean tossed through the first carelessly, throwing clothes and toiletries every which way. As he’d suspected, nothing presented itself as being secretly villainous.

It was only once he’d unzipped the second one that he got his first reward. Although reward was likely not the word to describe the glint of handcuffs poking out innocently from between a pair of socks. Oh, those sneaky fucks. Straining to see in the low light, Dean gathered all the balled up pairs of socks he had pulled from the first duffel and unrolled them. Out of the six pairs, two had sets of handcuffs cushioned within. Combined with the number he found in the second bag, there were five pairs total.

“Sonofabitch,” he growled, setting them all to the side. He searched a bit more thoroughly after that, but it turned out to be the third duffel when he hit the jackpot. He would have missed it too, if he hadn’t taken the entire bag out of the trunk and dumped its contents on the ground for convenience. He cast the duffel aside, and a conspicuously un-clothlike clang sounded as it hit the pavement. “The hell?” he muttered, snatching it back up and flipping it over. It looked like a normal bag, only now he realized that it shouldn’t be this heavy with nothing inside.

Moments later, a grin spread across his face as his fingers found the concealed catch at the foot of the duffel. Two flaps had been expertly sewn on, creating a false bottom that left the last few inches of space free, and Dean settled on the lip of the trunk to undo them. He found two things inside. The first was a flat, silver box that rattled as he lifted it out. He raised the lid, and discovered the source: a number of unmarked glass vials, all slotted into their own compartment like a seamstress’ container for storing different colored threads. A collection of hypodermic needles was lying ready alongside. There was a sour taste in Dean’s mouth as he pulled out one of the vials, the brightness from the streetlights refracting through the clear liquid within as he held it up. _Pretty damn easy to control a kid when he’s too drugged out to know what’s going on_ , he thought. It wasn’t hard to imagine a needle sliding through the delicate skin of Sam’s arm, puncturing the vein beneath and his wide eyes, defiance masking the fear, slowly drooping shut as he lost the fight for consciousness.

Dean shoved the vial back into its slot, sickened, and sorely tempted to hurl the entire thing across the lot and listen to the glass shatter. Except then John would notice. And he was already convinced that Dean was falling apart. Which he _wasn’t_.

He could still throw it. The satisfaction would be worth it. But that would not help convince his father that he was keeping it together. The man already treated him with a surprising gentleness (well, what passed for gentleness with John), as though Dean wasn’t strong enough to pull through this on his own. He was, of course -he fucking was- but John obviously didn’t think so. To be honest, Dean couldn’t decide whether this newfound concern was annoying, touching, or plain freaky. But it was definitely awkward. John Winchester was not the sharing and caring type.

Not that he was dealing with this any better than Dean, the hypocrite. Dean could tell this was hitting him hard. It was evident in the drinking, the way he switched from stifling concern for Dean one moment and obsessive searching for Sam’s kidnappers the next. No, Dean knew his father, and the man was not taking this well. He was simply better at hiding it than Dean. But, either way, if Dean wanted him to stop acting as though Dean was an emotional time bomb about to go off, Dean would just have to prove to him that he was a stable fucking rock of level-headedness. Which he fucking _was_. But it also meant he couldn’t go around destroying things because he couldn’t hold his temper in check. Even if the things he was destroying had hurt Sammy, and it would be so incredibly satisfying to smash these damn little vials under his boots... But no. John would most certainly not be impressed by that.

So Dean set the box aside and reached for the other item hidden in the bottom of the duffel. It was, of all things, a scrapbook, which was more than a little weird. Dean hadn’t taken Bennett or Cawfield to be the type, what with them being amoral, cowardly, kidnapping douchebags and all. He flipped it open, rough paper rubbing against his fingertips. It was never that easy, but maybe they had a handy list tucked in the pages of all their customers or something. _Yeah, Mr. So-and-so, for the order of one way-more-trouble-than-he’s-worth little brother. Here is his address, his list of weaknesses, and all the ways it’s possible to break into his house. Oh, and just for fun, here’s a list of any security measures he has and how to disarm them_. Yeah. That’d be nice right about now.

But that wasn’t what Dean found. That wouldn’t have made his blood run cold and his stomach clench in horror. Because looking back at him from the very first page was the face of a child. He couldn’t have been more than seven, with curly blonde hair and huge, liquid brown eyes, like a doe’s. He was crying, fat tears leaving salty trails down his cheeks, one of which was discolored by a large, purple bruise. All he was wearing was a pair of baggy, oversized sweatpants. His hands were cuffed cruelly in front of him, and Dean could see the angry looking marks where the metal had cut into the boy’s skin.

But that worst thing wasn’t any of that. It was the fact that the child was cowering, practically fainting with fright, and with such an expression of confusion on his chubby features, like he couldn’t possibly understand why someone would do this to him, or what he had done to deserve it.

For a long, long minute, Dean simply sat there, staring at this lost, little boy that he would never meet, who had likely died long ago. Then, with labored breathing and white-knuckled fists, he flipped through the rest of the book, letting his eyesight blur and a tinge of red distort everything he saw.

The photographs filled every page. Picture after picture of children, mostly boys, dozens of kids who had been sold by Bennett and Cawfield. The youngest could have only been about four, while the oldest boys were maybe seventeen or eighteen. All were shirtless, and all wore the same expression of terrified bewilderment as the first. About two thirds of the way through, Dean had to stop and walk to the edge of the parking lot, staring up at the star littered sky and focusing on the frigid wind cutting through his clothes like knives. Vomiting was feeling more and more appealing, but he had to see. He had to know, beyond all doubt.

He finally found it, the very last picture before the scrapbook pages ran blank. It might have been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, to make himself look down and meet Sam’s eyes.

His brother stared blearily back at the camera, arms stretched up above his head. Like the others, his chest was bare, though Dean could see the waistband of his pants at the very bottom of the frame. Small comfort. Dean’s teeth clenched as he examined the blossoming bruise across Sam’s cheek and jaw, centered around a reddened, shallow cut. He wondered which of the two men currently tied up in the motel room behind him was wearing the ring that would match up to it. Whichever it was- Dean was looking forward to the time he could settle down with the man and repay the favor.

Sam’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, dilated pupils surrounded by the slimmest ring of hazel. Dean had expected him to be apprehensive or scared, even outraged. What he didn’t expect was for Sam to be standing passively, looking like he couldn’t have cared less if these freaks chained him to the ceiling and took his picture. Dean flashed to the silver box and the vials inside. Fuck, what if they’d gotten Sam hooked on something, like heroin or crack? Dean had heard of the before, right? They got the kids addicted so that they had to stick around for their next fix. The thought of Sammy, strung out and begging for another hit with sunken, puppy dog eyes...

Dean dropped the book from frozen fingers. Something like fire was burning through him. That couldn’t happen, not to Sam. He wouldn’t let it. Except he couldn’t stop it. Sam was gone, and anything could happen without Dean being able to do a damn thing.

Dean stood blindly, the muscles all along his arms straining with the need to do something. He wanted to run until his legs wouldn't support him, or find something to break into a million pieces with his bare hands. He wanted to go inside and make those two men hurt as much as he was hurting. And then he wanted to hurt them beyond that, because nothing, _nothing_ could hurt them as much as the pain eating away at Dean’s chest. He thought it might tear him apart from the inside.

But really, all he wanted was his brother.

He was pacing, he realized, back and forth across that damned abandoned lot. Long legs devouring the ground in front of him, trying to distract him, trying to feel something other than the gaping hole in his heart. The hole that Sam had left. Faster and faster, until he was sprinting across the crumbling asphalt, over and over and over again, until sweat poured down his back and sides, his lungs heaved for breath, and the taste of coppery blood coated the back of his throat.

An image flickered in front of his eyes, of that last night before Sam had disappeared. Of his head thrown back as he laughed at Dean spitting out his mouthwash. His hazel eyes had been crinkled ever so slightly at the edges, dimples out in full force. The gangly arms that he had yet to grow into wrapped around his stomach to hold in his glee. He had looked so carefree, so _alive_. That Dean would never make him laugh again, or that he would never grow into the powerful man he was meant to be...

It was only when Dean thought that his heart would give out if pushed any farther that he felt the wetness streaking down his cheeks. Which meant the only thing he could do was to run faster, because maybe then he could leave all his crippling emotions somewhere in the miles he put behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I feel like it was laid on a little thick at the end there... Feel free to tell me if you agree, with a comment! Thanks to everyone who left comments before, and who left kudos and everything!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh I'm sorry! I have the unfortunate habit of forgetting to post for months on end. I'm very sorry everyone, for how long this took. If anyone is too impatient, this story is also posted on Fanfiction.com, and has several more chapters there (up to 14 I think). That site is the one I post to more regularly, so I'll be honest, I forgot that this story was on AO3 until a couple hours ago... Hope you all enjoy the very belated update, and thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments!!

The paperweight sat cold and heavy in my hand. It was an ugly thing, all twisted metal and sharp edges. Obscure silhouettes were etched across its surface, a clawing arm here, a grimacing face there, like the souls of the damned chasing an absolution that was just out of reach. Every time the outline of a tortured limb caught the light, it sent shivers of unease down my spine. But it was bulky and dense, and would hopefully fulfill the task I had in mind for it. Deliberately, I ran the pad of my thumb over one of the jutting protrusions, metal slick under my touch.

I had parked myself in Cheverill’s desk chair, albeit gingerly. Carter had been right when he’d said sitting wouldn’t be the most comfortable position. The paperweight was gripped rigidly in my right hand, while my left had been laid across the top of the desk, palm down. The cuff clasped around my wrist winked innocuously at me, pale against dark wood and tan skin. Though I had only been wearing them for two days at most, I could already feel the rawness of the chafed areas beneath. I loathed them. They had become a symbol of my subjugation, and of Cheverill’s power over me. They were the obstacle I had to overcome to get out of this hellhole.

My fingers tightened around the paperweight and I lifted it above my head, the corners digging lightly into my palm. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I could smash the soldering out of the cuffs’ tiny keyholes, not with the tools I had at my disposal, so the hinges were my next best bet. I wasn’t completely confident that breaking the hinges would work, but until I came up with something better it was worth a shot. With as much power as I could garner, I brought the paperweight down on the hinges of my left cuff with a _clang!_ that reverberated through my entire arm. My lip twisted in a grimace as I raised my wrist to examine the damage to the cuff. Not even a scratch. Fine, if it wanted to be stubborn. Two could play at that game.

I repositioned my arm and smashed the paperweight into the hinges. Another _clang!_ vibrated around the room. Shockwaves hummed through my bones, making me grit my teeth in discomfort. If the sound of nails on chalkboard could be a sensation, that’s what it felt like as I hefted the paperweight again.

_Clang!_

Once I got the bracelets off, it would be harder to treat the collar to the same, but I was confident I could do it. Even if I’d have to use the mirror in the bathroom to see where I was aiming. It would be cruel irony to be rid of the cuffs, only to suffocate through a crushed windpipe. When they were all off, I would open the window like I had before and simply follow through with my original plan.

_Clang!_

A mist still clung tenaciously to the boughs of the trees. As soon as I reached the edge of the mansion grounds I would be able to vanish into it without a trace. Although I would need to find a new set of clothes. The stripper costume Cheverill gave me was going to be burned at the first feasible opportunity. I would have already changed clothing if Cheverill hadn’t rigged the cuffs to activate when I opened the closet door. I guess he didn’t want me making anymore lock picks.

_Clang!_

My only concern was that someone would spot me making a break for it. Through no stretch of the imagination could I claim that I was in full health. For God’s sake, I couldn’t even _walk_ straight, what with the pain that flared in my lower back every time I took a step. A confrontation with Carter could only end badly, and if he did catch me I had no doubt that Cheverill would not take kindly to my latest escape scheme. I shuddered as I lifted the paperweight. No, Cheverill would not like that at all.

Surely this damn cuff was close to breaking. It had to be weakening, at least! I slammed the paperweight down yet again, and discovered that no, the cuffs were not weakening. All I had succeeded in doing was pissing them off. A sudden blaze of electricity exploded through them, eliciting a yelp from me before my vocal chords froze and my throat seized helplessly. The paperweight fell from my nerveless grasp and I struggled to stay conscious, liquid lightning clamping down on every muscle and raking them over white hot coals.

I came to slumped over the desk. The neat piles of paper stacked across it had been scattered every which way by my flailing, once-crisp sheets now crinkled and bent. I sucked a tremulous breath into my aching lungs and closed my eyes. Much as I would have loved to believe that it had been a fluke, a random mishap of crossed wires or a short circuit, I knew better. The cuffs were set to activate if attacked like that. How the hell Cheverill had programmed them to know when that was, I had no clue, but it didn’t really matter either way.

My eyes snapped open and I pounded a fist onto the desk, a snarl of fury contorting my face. Was it impossible for one thing to go my way? Breathing heavily, I sat and glared at the cuff, wrestling with the part of myself that just wanted to break down and wail. I wasn’t _that_ emotionally unstable, goddamnit.

I reviewed the facts in my head. The cuffs prevented me from leaving this room, therefore the cuffs needed to come off. The only way that would happen was if the hinges could be broken, as the soldering prevented me from picking the miniscule locks. And lastly, if I didn’t crush the hinges, get the cuffs off and escape, I would be at the mercy of a ruthless lunatic for the remainder of my (probably very short) life. _So,_ I told myself sternly. _Stop complaining and get back to it. Sitting here won’t do any good at all._

I straightened and picked up the paperweight from where I had dropped it. The indistinct faces pushing out through the metal looked as though they were leering up at me. Creepy thing. Who the hell bought a paperweight like this anyway? I ignored their mocking expressions and placed my arm on the desk, readying myself. I would have to hit it with all I had. I didn’t want to endure more shocks than absolutely necessary. I readjusted my hold on the paperweight, and then again as my clammy palms made the crevices greasy with sweat.

Maybe I could find another way, I reasoned to myself as my hand refused to descend. I hadn’t really tried to pick a soldered lock before. There was no way it was _that_ hard. Or hey, maybe if I soaked the cuffs for long enough they would short circuit. It was completely irrelevant that they worked after my shower anyway. The shower hadn’t even been _that_ wet. Or maybe-

_Shut up and hit the damn cuff, you idiot!_

My arm jerked down, ending with the loud ringing of metal on metal. I braced myself for the inevitable backlash, but even knowing what was coming didn’t prevent the cry being wrenched from my throat as the cuffs burst ardently into life. I could barely feel the chair slipping out from beneath me, spasms running the length of my body. I landed hard on my side on the polished wood floor. One of my kicking legs caught the nearest desk leg, sending a shower of office supplies tumbling down around me. My voice broke on the next yell, and seriously, weren’t the people who worked here ever in the least bit disturbed by the constant screams coming from their employer’s bedroom?

Blackness was fluttering around the fringes of my vision by the time the cuffs switched off. A line of drool had worked its way down my chin and I wiped it away with a trembling hand, squeezing my eyes shut as the room spun alarmingly. I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then twice more before I was convinced I wouldn’t throw up all over myself. As I rolled over onto my stomach (at least if I vomited, it might as well do some good and stain Cheverill’s floor), I decided that perhaps this getaway plan needed to be revised. Heavily.

A hard ridge was poking into my right hip. I shifted irritably, eyes still closed. I was exhausted, both from last nights... activities, and from my emotional paroxysm in the bathroom. It wouldn’t be too much of a leap to say that adding high amounts of voltage to the mess might not be too beneficial. I twitched again. What the hell was I lying on anyway? Lazily, my hand drifted down to prod disinterestedly at the offending intrusion. Round, thin, cold. Stupid thing. Couldn’t it see I just wanted to rest a minute without it making little jabs at my stomach every time I breathed? I pulled it out lethargically and brought it around in front of my unfocused eyes.

The wood was smooth against my cheek as I blinked dumbly at it, absorbing the miniature hilt and dull blade without a shred of comprehension. _Why would he have a tiny sword on his desk? That’s silly of him_ , I thought.

“ _That would be a_ letter opener _, you dolt_ ,” piped a voice from the back of my head, managing to sound condescending and exasperated all at once. God, I’d been hearing way too many disembodied voices lately.

 _Go ‘way_ , I told it sleepily. _‘M not crazy, so I don’t hear voices. Only crazy people hear those_. Then a thought struck me. _Am I crazy? That’d be bad... I’d have to wear those white gowns like in mental hospitals. Dean’d never let me live it down._

For the record, I do realize how nonsensical I was at the time, and how unhinged I would have sounded to anyone listening, had I voiced my thoughts. As it was, it took a few beats for me to pause in my musings to understand what exactly I was holding in my hand. A letter opener. As close to a knife as it was possible to get and, in a nutshell, what could be my ticket out. I dropped it with a clatter and scooted back, shrinking away from it like it would abruptly rear up and attack.

I had never killed a human before, ever, not in all my years hunting with Dad and Dean. Sure, sometimes people died during a job, too often actually, but never by my own hand. It was always a possession gone wrong, or an attack that we couldn’t get to in time. You couldn’t save everyone. And while I had accepted this hard truth over time, it never made it any easier to bear, knowing that someone had died because we hadn’t been fast enough. I couldn’t throw all that away, right? My principals were all I had, the only things left to connect me to my family.

 _But,_ that same voice interjected. _What if it gets you back to them? Would you rather have that connection or actually be with them?_

It had a point. I reached out and closed my fingers around the handle of the weapon, laboriously propping myself up to examine it more thoroughly. Like everything else in this house, it was a model for overabundance. The slim, silver blade was inlaid with a faint, looping design, and the pommel glimmered with encrusted blue and green stones. I tested the tip with my thumb and was unsurprised to find it blunter than a pair of safety scissors. It would be a painful and messy way to die.

I staggered clumsily to my feet and lurched over to the windows, muscles still uncoordinated from their recent frying. It was with a sigh of satisfaction that I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, resting my elbows on the frame to steady myself and gazing out over the forest and grounds.

The mist that had prevailed since morning had yet to lift, shrouding the tops of the trees in a ghostly film that left the uppermost branches like skeletal fingers grasping for an unreachable sun. Ephemeral tendrils snaked from the forest edge out onto the groomed lawn, slinking towards the house like curious children. Every so often they would take a quick peek over their shoulders, listening for the shrill reprimand that meant mother had spotted them exploring where they shouldn’t and would soon herd them all inside with a flurry of scolding.

My eyes dropped to the letter opener in my hand. I couldn’t actually kill a man, could I? Yes, he had hurt me, but he was _human_. This wasn’t the same as some paranormal killer. It wasn’t even in the same ballpark.

But then, what was the definition of a monster? Wasn’t Cheverill just as bad, only in a different way? Worse even, because he had the choice not to harm anyone, yet he did so regardless? For so many hunts our target had been driven by base instinct and need, unable to stop themselves from killing because they physically could not survive without it as a source of prey, or because their minds had become so warped that they no longer saw why they shouldn’t. How was Cheverill any better? I wondered about the other boys he had mentioned; how many had he simply used up, crippled beyond repair and discarded like broken, life-sized dolls? How many bodies had been buried out in the miles of spectral woods, left alone and forgotten with only the darkness and the worms to acknowledge their passing?

I shivered and huddled back from the windows, looking away from the pallid line of unending trunks. The mist was playing tricks with my eyes. As the trees faded in and out, they seemed to advance farther onto the lawn, crooked branches stretched towards me in covetous invitation. Waiting for Cheverill to tire of me and dispose of me like all the others. Waiting for the day that I too would be dumped in a shallow grave, and they would twine their roots around my stiffened corpse and never let me go.

My God, when had I become so morbid? I pressed my palms together, pinching the hilt of the letter opener between them, and feeling the uneven metal bite into my calloused skin. I wouldn’t become Cheverill’s boy toy, and I sure as hell wouldn’t become another nameless victim rotting in an unmarked tomb. Determinedly, I cradled the letter opener and settled down to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

I had no idea how much time passed. The sun was sequestered behind layers of woolen clouds, and there was no clock in the room. (The absence of clocks bothered me to no end. Who didn’t have a clock in their bedroom? I couldn’t shake the thought that Cheverill had removed them expressly because of me, but there was no good reason for it that I could see. Then again, the guy _was_ crazy. Probably. Hopefully. I still hadn’t decided.) At what I estimated was around noon, another tray of food was delivered by the mousy woman from yesterday, but for the most part I spent my time sitting by the windows, watching the undulating mist form and reform into distorted figures that wafted apart as soon as they were conceived. I must have changed my mind a thousand times, second thoughts playing a screwed up version of Ring-Around-the-Rosie through my head. One moment I would have grown a spine and resolved to carry through with my plan, the next my backbone would be lying in a melted puddle on the floor as I cursed myself for a coward while I began to put the letter opener away. Then I would think of my family, or Cheverill’s groping touch, and the cycle would start all over again.

The light was starting to dim when I finally heard the clack of footsteps heading for my room. As the gloom of the mist receded grudgingly, twilight hurrying forward to take its place, I stood uncertainly from my perch by the windows and slipped over to lurk near the doorway, letter opener clutched in a death grip in my hand and indecision still paralyzing my mind.

“Will you be needing anything, Sir?” a woman asked from right outside the door, halting the footsteps just as they reached it. I wiped my sweaty palms on my too-tight jeans and wrapped my fingers firmly around the letter opener’s hilt to subdue their quivering. I _would_ do this.

“No, I don’t believe so.” Cheverill’s oily purr had me frozen in place, nails carving reddened crescent moons into the pads of my thumbs before I could shove the visceral fear aside and remaster myself. “Have no one disturb me for the remainder of the night unless I expressly request it.” Well, now that was ideal. Hopefully nobody would intrude while I was stabbing Cheverill in the throat. I swallowed hard. Fuck, I couldn’t do this.

“Of course, Sir. Have a good night.” The _tap-tap_ of the woman’s heels receded down the corridor. This was it. Oh God, I couldn’t do it. I had to do it. I _couldn’t_ do it. I strove to keep my breathing level. The door knob was turning and my heart was pounding so loudly that I swear it was trying to warn the man of what I was about to do because Jesus _fuck_ since when could one muscle make more clamor than a firing squad and I _couldn’t_ do this but I _had_ to because Dean was out there looking for _me_ and what was I _thinking_ attacking a deranged _psychopath_ with nothing but a damn _letter opener-_

The door swung inward. Cheverill entered, a predatory grace to his stride as he pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it over his desk chair, looking around the room.

“Samuel?” he called, and though his back was to me I was certain his lips were drawn up in a bestial grin. It was as far as he got before my knees unlocked and I rushed him from behind, slamming into the space between his shoulderblades. My momentum carried us both to the floor and I drove my knee into the base of his spine to hold him down. My assumption that he would be too dazed to fight back crumbled to dust as he immediately surged up beneath me in a violent endeavor to throw me off. I seized his shoulders and clung on stubbornly, attempting to keep him still and ready the letter opener all at once. Cheverill bucked again, snarling, and reached around for his bracelet. I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye and lunged forward in a panic. I couldn’t let him shock me, or this whole thing was for nothing. I had just forgotten that the fist I was lunging with was holding the letter opener as well.

The tip of the blade pierced Cheverill’s hand with unexpected ease, burying itself with a thunk in the floor below and pinning him there like a bug on a display. For a split second we both ground to a halt, each of us equally shocked, and watched a bead of blood well up from where the metal was impaled just below his knuckles. Whoops. Then the pain seemed to register and Cheverill let out a bellow worthy of any rawhead, flinging me away as he thrashed like a dying piece of roadkill.

My senses came back to me and I scrambled to my feet. Somehow, I dodged Cheverill’s flailing legs and aimed a kick at his head. He ducked and grabbed my ankle in his good hand, dragging it out from under me so that I crashed heavily onto his chest.

“You little bitch,” he rasped, fingers closing around my throat just above the silver collar. I choked and scrabbled ineffectually at the back of his wrist. He was unbelievably strong, and he shook me as easily as a cat would a mouse, my head snapping back and forth. Blindly, I did the only thing I could think of, and felt for the hilt of the letter opener still embedded in his palm. The tips of my nails brushed metal. I clutched at the handle and have it a vicious twist, feeling bones grind against the blade. Cheverill released me with a roar and I wheezed in a greedy breath of precious air. My throat seemed too constricted, and I hastily blinked away the gray spots swimming in front of my eyes. I recovered just as Cheverill swung at me, barely getting my arm up in time to deflect it. The move left him unguarded, and I straddled him high on his chest, my shins pressed down on his biceps to hold him in place.

“What are you going to do then, Samuel?” he sneered, all unctuosity gone from his tone. In answer I yanked the letter opener from his hand, disregarding the gush of blood that spurted from the wound. Cheverill stared as I raised it in both fists. Then, as I was positioning it over the hollow of his throat, he inexplicably tossed his head back and started to laugh. It was harsh and ugly, a mocking sound that set my teeth on edge.

“You really think you can kill me?” Cheverill leered. I adjusted my grip and hovered the point an inch away from his adam’s apple. One smooth thrust and I would be free. Cheverill cackled again. “You can’t do it, can you, boy? I can see it in your face! You don’t have the strength.”

“Shut up,” I growled. Cheverill’s pulse was a delicate flutter above his collarbone and I rested the tip of the blade directly atop it. One stab and this would all be over. And yet I hesitated. I was about to _murder_ a human.

I was so distracted by my damned moral dilemma that my knees had slackened where they pinned Cheverill’s shoulders to the ground. Cheverill sensed the vulnerability and rolled sideways with a powerful heave, dumping me gracelessly to the floor and knocking every scrap of air from my lungs as his uninjured fist plowed into my stomach. I curled away instinctively, but his arms were free now and he was reaching for his bracelet before I even recalled the danger.

The cuffs switched on, cutting off my desperate “no!” before it could pass my lips. I bent in on myself as the familiar pain filled me. The letter opener was plucked from my unresisting fingers, and I hardly registered it when my arms were roughly grabbed and the cuffs clipped together behind my back. A hard kick landed on my exposed ribs, almost lost amid the scorching acid chewing its way through each of my veins.

By the time I came back to myself I was whimpering quietly into my knees, curled into a ball as best I could with my arms tied behind me. To my surprise, wayward tears had tracked thick lines across my cheeks, clumping to my eyelashes as I attempted to rub them away with my shoulder. From somewhere close by, the sound of splashing water could be heard. I listened for a moment, trying to pinpoint the source, but before I could the sole of a boot stomped brutally into my chest.

“You know what, Samuel?” Cheverill’s eyes were wild. His heel ground against my sternum and I groaned. “I was thoroughly enjoying my day. Nothing operose to attend to, no vexatious people to manage. And I was savoring the knowledge that you were here, awaiting my return.”

There were so many things wrong with his little monologue that I didn’t even know where to begin. I could probably start with the fact that his pretentious manner was back. And that he made it sound like I was a lovesick puppy pining for him. My ass I was ‘awaiting’ anybody.

“But to ascertain that upon my ingression, you had the effrontery to assault me?” He leaned down and hauled me to my feet, his uninjured hand clamped like a vice around my upper arm. He didn’t seem to care that the other was bleeding freely, droplets of red trickling from the gash and spotting the wood beneath him with sprinkles of gore. “You should have known that a nugatory little maggot like you wouldn’t have possessed the fortitude to dispatch anyone, let alone myself.”

My God, even his insults sounded like... well, like that. “Do you talk like a rejected Dracula extra because you’re overcompensating?” I asked. “Or because you know that kidnapping and black market deals are the only way you can get laid?”

Cheverill’s eyes blazed. “You won’t learn, will you?” he spat, dampening my face with spittle. He wound his bloody hand ruthlessly through my hair and propelled me towards the bathroom, hissing in my ear, “you’ve given me no choice but to punish you for this. It could have been easily prevented, but you just wouldn’t acquiesce.” Somehow, I didn’t think he was too torn up over it.

The gush of water grew louder as he shoved me into the bathroom and threw me to the floor. I crashed to the tiles, arms useless to break my fall, and watched dazedly as Cheverill bent over the massive bathtub on the far wall. There was a squeak and the sounds of water stopped.

“What’re you doin’?” I slurred as Cheverill crouched down and pulled me to my knees before the tub. Its blunt rim dug into my stomach, the rippling water innocently reflecting my wary image as I gazed into it.

Cheverill stroked my bangs out of my eyes and smiled sadly, the fury from seconds ago gone without a trace. “I’m sorry Samuel, but you brought this on yourself. After this, perhaps you’ll begin to listen to me.” His contrite tone was as false as his expression. It wasn’t hard to see that he was relishing every moment of this. His fingers combed tenderly through my hair, almost comforting, until they suddenly clenched in the overlong strands and dunked my head under the icy water.

Taken off guard, I spluttered and yelped, losing about half the air I had managed to gulp down. Cheverill’s hold was stringent and unwavering, the edge of the tub now a sharp pain grating into my ribs. I jerked against his grip, water sloshing over my chest and splattering onto the floor, but my fettered arms could do nothing to knock him away. A dull burn was starting in my chest. I needed air, but Cheverill gave no sign of relenting anytime soon. I struggled madly, my bare feet sliding across the sopping tiles with no traction to support me. The burn was fast becoming an unbearable pressure in my lungs and throat and try as I might, I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. A host of bubbles clouded around my mouth and nose just before I sucked in a froth of water and started to choke. _He’s going to let me drown,_ I thought, terrified. Water was filling my lungs even as my frantic struggling weakened.

Then I was breathing in air, sweet, lovely air, coughing and hacking up streams of water while Cheverill held my head above the surface of the tub, smoothing my dripping hair away from my face and leaving bloody streaks across my skin. “Are you going to behave yet, Samuel?” he questioned. It was all the warning I received before he plunged me back into the water.

He left me for longer this time, long enough that my vision was starting to gray when he finally pulled me out. He didn’t say anything, only let me regain some of my breath while he feathered kisses down the side of my temple and over my jaw. “Are you going to behave?” he asked again, once I was done spitting up water.

“You think you’re scaring me?” I laughed, my voice a wrecked, gravelly rasp. Okay, maybe he was, a little. Not that I was going to let him know. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Cheverill’s answering smile was razor-tipped. “If you insist, dear boy, I’ll gladly rise to the challenge. In fact, I’m just getting started.”

I jerked against his hand as he lowered me back in, my cutting retort swallowed by the water. And I really had thought it couldn’t have been worse than it was. Of course, I probably shouldn’t have goaded him like that either, but I’ve always had a problem with authority. And people drowning me for fun.

He let me squirm for a minute or so, keeping my head submerged and allowing the ache to grow in my chest. Then he made good on his threat and turned on my cuffs. I honestly don’t remember much of what directly followed. The water amplified the electric shocks until I was sure my brain would sizzle to a crisp inside my skull and after awhile, the world blurred into nothing more than a haze of water and pain. I don’t know how many times Cheverill dunked me either. I have a vague recollection of being lifted from the water and croaking, “stop, please... Please no more...” and Cheverill deliberating for an agonizing moment, finally shaking his head and jeering, “you’re going to have to do better than that, Samuel.”

 

* * *

 

 

When I next became fully aware of my surroundings, I was lying facedown, soft carpet rubbing against my cheek. My arms were still bound behind my back and my throat felt like it had been stuffed with shards of broken glass. I groaned unconsciously, trying to catalogue all the twinges my body was complaining about.

“Excellent, you’re awake!” Cheverill’s voice came from somewhere to my left, infuriatingly chipper. “I was about to rouse you personally if you took much longer. I even had time to summon one of my personnel to bandage the injury you paid me while you were quiescent.”

 _Oh God, someone help me,_ I thought, hunching in on myself. _Dean, where are you?_

There was the sound of a drawer opening, then the clink of metal as Cheverill rummaged through its contents. “Ah, here we are,” he said, satisfied, and I cautiously peeked out from under my lashes. I was lying in front of the plush couch of the sitting area, marble table to my back, with the bank of windows making up the wall over my head. All I could see of Cheverill were his shoes and half of one ankle through the gap between the couch and the floor. “This will do nicely,” he continued, and his feet disappeared, only for the man himself to step around the couch and squat down next to my head.

“Now, Samuel,” he began, reminding me of Dad when he was gearing up for a lecture. “For what we’re going to engage in next, you will need to pay close attention. I’ll expect you to become highly proficient at it within the next few weeks.” He turned me over onto my back and held up what appeared to be a black ring with two straps coming off either side. Looking closer, I saw four thin metal rods also protruding off the ring, bent like the legs of a spider.

“Whatever the hell you’re planning to do with that-” I husked, voice raw from all the water I had inhaled. Cheverill cut me off before I could finish, grabbing my jaw and pressing hard on the pressure points behind it until it was forced to open. I made an unintelligible noise of protest and attempted to twist away, but he jammed a knee into my stomach and pinned me beneath him.

“Shh, shh,” he crooned, and slipped the bizarre ring object into my open mouth. It lodged itself just behind my front teeth, stretching my jaw uncomfortably wide, with two of the metal rods pressing against the roof of my mouth and the other two slotting in under my tongue. Furiously, I shook my head from side to side, prying at it with my tongue to dislodge it.

“I’ll be having none of that, Samuel,” Cheverill admonished. He released my chin and reached around to buckle the two straps behind my head, securing the device firmly in place. As he pulled back he gave my cheek an endearing pat with his bandaged hand. I felt a spike of vicious pleasure at the sight; I hoped it hurt like a bitch. “I know you resent it for the moment,” Cheverill went on, “but I assure you that you’ll soon grow accustomed to wearing it. Moreover, if you comport yourself laudably, I’ll only stipulate its use for the first few sessions to expedite your learning.”

I glared, prevented from replying by the gag. The edges of the ring were cutting into the soft flesh of my gums, and while I could still breathe through the hole in the center, the position it forced my jaw to take made it impossible to swallow normally. Lines of drool were gathering at the corners of my mouth and had begun to dribble down my chin. Cheverill’s lip twitched in amusement as he lifted a hand and thumbed one of the trails away.

“You are going to feel so good, Samuel,” he murmured, getting to his feet and unclasping his belt, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Let’s see if your tongue is proficient at anything other than boorish vituperation.”

My eyes widened and I wrenched myself away from him, straining at the fastenings clipping my cuffs together. I didn’t know what the hell ‘vituperation’ meant (and _seriously_ , who talked like that? Someone needed to tell this guy that throwing big words into his sentences didn’t make him sound intelligent), but I would have had to be pretty thick not to realize what Cheverill was about to do. Giving a blowjob wasn’t something I had ever imagined myself doing, and certainly not to some guy at least twelve years my senior with my hands tied behind my back and a sex toy holding my mouth open and ready.

 Cheverill finished unbuttoning his pants and pulled himself out, already half hard and leaking. I kicked out at him, horrified and disgusted, as he maneuvered me to kneel before the couch, ignoring my grunts and repeated attempts to break free. Cheverill sat in front of me, exposed crotch mere inches from my face. I balked and almost made it to my feet before his hand clamped punishingly down on my shoulder and shoved me back to my knees.

“Shh, Samuel, shh,” he soothed, threading his fingers the hair at the base of my skull. “I won’t hurt you. Just relax, that’s it.”

Fuck that. I squirmed to the side, thrashing, as he drew me closer with unrelenting hands. My breath was coming in short, petrified gasps that whistled through the gag like muted screams.

“Samuel,” Cheverill chided, yanking my head face him. “Enough with this offensive behavior. I told you to relax, and I expect you to comply.” I snarled, and he released my shoulder to cuff me impatiently across the side of my face. “I said enough,” he snapped, giving me a good shake to punctuate his words. I was too disoriented to lean away as he guided my head down and pushed the head of his cock through the ring and into my mouth. _That_ brought me around. I jolted and bucked in his grasp, but both of his hands were anchored unshakably in my scalp and I wasn’t going anywhere soon.

Cheverill slithered in another inch, the taste of salt and urine bleeding across my tongue and bringing back the urge to vomit all over again. The loose skin on the underside of his dick caught nauseatingly on the points of my teeth and I can honestly say that I had never wanted to bite down on anything as much as I did then. His length was hot and throbbing, beads of precum rolling continually from the tip until I could taste nothing else.

“Mmm, you’re so pretty like this, Samuel,” Cheverill moaned, bumping against the back of my throat as I retched and coughed. “Taking me like the good little pet you are.” He tapped the strap holding the ring in my mouth and smiled. “Soon you won’t even need this, once you’ve lost this rebellious streak of yours. Can’t wait to feel your pretty lips wrapped around me.” He nudged my gag reflex again, grinning at the way I convulsed involuntarily.

Seeming to tire of the slow pace, he thrust forward in earnest, burying himself deep in my throat. I choked, muscles flexing around the intrusion, trying to push it out and breath all at once. Cheverill let out a blissful whine and pulled back, slamming back in over and over while his hands clenched in my hair and satisfied grunts spilled from his lips. His cock was rock hard in my mouth and he hit my gag reflex with every thrust, making my eyes water uncontrollably. How the hell did people _like_ giving these? I couldn’t breath, and my windpipe, already abused from all the water forced down it, felt like it was on the verge of tearing.

When Cheverill finally shot his load down my throat, I was faint and dizzy from lack of air. Come filled my mouth and seeped from around the gag, dripping down my chin and onto my chest. At least it had been quick. Cheverill left his softening member where it was, resting on my tongue like a slug as he stroked my hair comfortingly and commanded, “now clean me up Samuel, like a good boy.”

I stiffened, wondering how I could tell him to go fuck himself without speaking. If he wanted to wash off he could damn well do it himself. It wasn’t like he could shock me with his dick in my mouth, not unless he wanted to share in the experience.

When I mulishly refused to move, Cheverill sighed. “Really Samuel, I would have thought you’d have learned. Fussing like this will gain you nothing.” He bent forward and snagged the wire clipping my cuffs together. My breath hitched as he gave it a slight tug, stretching my arms up towards my head. “Have you ever had your shoulder dislocated?” he asked conversationally. I had, once before when a particularly angry spirit had chucked me through a window. Thankfully, the window hadn’t been very high, but I could still remember the white knife of pain that came as I felt the bone pop out of joint.

Cheverill lifted my hands higher. I bit down around the gag as my shoulders strained tautly, pulled to the brink of their natural range. “I can desist, if you would prefer,” he offered, rolling his hips suggestively. I clamped down on a mewl of pain and remained where I was, defiance written on every line of my body. Cheverill shrugged. “As you wish.” I let out an agonized scream as he slowly, slowly raised my arms over my head, my shoulders grating sickeningly against the joint as they ripped out of their sockets. Cheverill let my arms drop back behind me, a moan coming from behind the gag as my tearing ligaments shifted. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing hard and trying not to focus on the way my arms dangled limply, the burden of their own weight stretching the distorted muscles even further.

"So, Samuel," Cheverill placed both hands on my right shoulder. "Have I persuaded you yet?" With a sharp jerk, he snapped the bone back into place. He did the same with my other side, shushing me consolingly as I cried out and cringed away. “Clean me, Samuel,” he ordered again, cupping my cheek.

I wouldn’t do it, I _wouldn’t_. I was stronger than this. I shook my head weakly. Cheverill’s eyes flashed, and the next moment, my shoulders had separated so fast that I almost didn’t realize where the cracking noise was coming from. Then the pain set in. I howled, jaw clenching around the gag as my already damaged tendons buckled. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I shivered, sobbing around Cheverill and his gag.

Calmly, Cheverill clicked each arm into its socket, keeping me upright when I sagged against him. “Shall I continue?” he offered, sweeping my damp hair from my eyes. I let out a strangled whimper. No. I wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t make me. I clung to that as he hooked the wire between his fingers and brought my hands up over my head.

This time, there was noticeably less resistance to the scrape of my shoulders sliding out of place. Maybe my tendons had all been severed already. It didn’t seem likely, but hell, it certainly _felt_ like it. “Come, Samuel,” Cheverill coaxed. Bone rasped on bone as he fit the joints together. “I can do this all night if needed.”

I closed my eyes, defeated. My shoulders were on fire, and I had no doubt that he was fully prepared to sit there, popping them in and out, until I gave him what he wanted. If it had been Dean here, he probably would’ve shot Cheverill his arrogant grin and told him to stick his offer up his ass. But Dean wasn’t stupid enough to get himself in this situation, and it wasn’t him kneeling here with his mouth stuffed with someone else’s cock. Just me. And I was no Dean.

Tentatively, I licked at the underside of Cheverill’s shaft, lapping at the loose skin until all traces of semen had gone. I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see the victorious expression he was no doubt directing at me, and they stayed closed as he pulled out and tucked himself back into his pants. A finger brushed along my cheek and I flinched back, but he only reached around to unbuckle the gag and gently remove it from my face. I opened and closed my jaw, refusing to focus on how it ached insistently. The musky flavor of come was still cloying on my tongue; I wondered if I’d ever be able to forget it.

With one hand, Cheverill reached down and scooped a dollop of come onto his fingers. “In the future,” he said, bringing the sticky substance to my lips, “you will swallow everything without needing me to feed it to you.” I gritted my teeth. My dignity wasn’t so far gone that I would suck his own spunk from his hand like a dog. “Samuel,” Cheverill warned as I hesitated, lightly pressing his fingers into the seam of my right shoulder. I chewed on my bottom lip. I could eat it willingly and hate myself, or he would keep dislocating my shoulders until I did, for which I would hate myself anyway. I couldn’t win.

I opened my mouth, feeling something splinter in my chest as I carefully licked his fingers clean. When I was done Cheverill petted my hair, rumbling “that’s my good boy, Samuel. Such a good boy.” I turned my face away, shame burning in my stomach.

Cheverill stood and laid the gag on the table. “I’m going to shower,” he told me. “Then maybe we’ll see about dinner, if that’s agreeable.” I didn’t answer. I knew he wasn’t actually asking for my approval. He turned and vanished into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a hollow _snik_.

I remained where I was, staring blindly at the floor as I listened to the squeak and hiss of the shower starting up. Numbly, I sat back and attempted to scrape off the drying spit and semen from my chin with my bare shoulder. Cheverill hadn’t bothered to free my hands, and my arms were beginning to cramp at the unnatural stretch, nevermind the burning in my shoulders. After a moment I rocked back onto my feet and went over to the windows, watching the nighttime shadows gambol aimlessly through the sinister trees. The lights from the house spilled out over the grounds, the only illumination in a sea of dark where neither the stars nor moon presided. Ominous clouds grumbled overhead, heralding the oncoming rain. _Maybe we’re in Rhode Island_ , I thought, leaning against the chilled glass. _It always seemed to be raining when we drove through there. Or Michigan, that’d make sense too_. I huffed contemptuously. _Hell, I could be outside of Seattle for all I know_. I swiped my tongue over my lips, remnants of sweat and come clinging to my skin. I remembered the weight of his hands in my hair, the slimy length of his dick forcing its way down my throat, the wet rush of heat as he climaxed.

Unbidden, my thoughts jumped to Dad and Dean. What would they do, once they discovered what I had done? I could imagine the look of repulsion Dean would give me, the disappointment in Dad’s eyes as he turned away. I was dirty, used, and it would only be a matter of time for them to realize it. I banged my head against the window once, twice, denying the tears that begged to fall. I had sworn I wouldn’t cry again. I bit my tongue to stifle a sob and asked myself, for the first time, whether it would be better if my family never found me at all.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, wow, sorry. To my ff.net reader who reminded me to post on this site, thank you! I'm sorry that I'm so behind on this website in terms of chapter posting, it's just much harder to upload a chapter on this site instead of ff.net x.x Enjoy!

Over the years, Cole Bennett had been subjected to a number of assorted insults.  Some were mild enough: jerk, coward, idiot, and so on.  These names Cole simply laughed at, shaking his head at the person's mediocre imagination.  But from there they progressively worsened, morphing into such terms as pussy, retard, faggot, backstabbing motherfucker- the list continued, a great majority of it not fit for polite conversation.  For the most part, Cole could shrug it off without a great deal of effort.  After all, being branded as a child-stealing, demon-spawned bastard was basically in his job description.  

 

But people always agreed on one matter, and that was that Cole was damned smart.  Not smart in a scholarly, educated way.  Cole had dropped out of school when he was in the eleventh grade.  No, the intelligence Cole possessed was the kind you could only gain from the streets.  Not that Cole had been bad in school.  If he had continued down that road, there was no telling where he might've ended up, in a high paying job or no.  When he was younger, Cole had secretly dreamed of escaping his crappy neighborhood and becoming one of those smooth-talking lawyers on the television shows he wasn’t allowed to watch.  However, it was pointless to speculate upon what might have been, because that door had been closed for him long ago.

 

Cole had grown up in a poor district on the outskirts of San Bernardino, California.  He and his mother had lived alone with only each other for company, but that had suited them just fine.  Cole adored his mother.  He loved the way she danced around their small house, infusing what might have been a gloomy environment with life and color.  When she cooked, she sang songs from her native country of Guatemala in a bright, clear voice.  Her honeysuckle scent wafted sweetly through the house, smelling of home and comfort, and it was her gentle touch that lulled him to sleep on dark nights when the fierce wind blew through their cracked walls.

 

Cole hadn't wanted to become a dropout.  School was his gateway to a career in law, to finally getting enough money to lift his mother out of the poverty that had plagued her throughout her entire life.  It was only after his mother got sick, really sick, that he was forced to abandon his education.  He hadn’t cared that the doctors told him her disease was terminal, in appropriately grave and sympathetic manners.  Even if death was calling to her, Cole was going to fight tooth and nail to help her resist for as long as possible.  

 

But that meant treatments, and treatments meant money.  His father was no help.  He'd ditched them years ago for the bottom of a bottle and lines of meth.  It was up to Cole to find a way to get his mother the medicine she needed, and he couldn't do that sitting at a classroom desk and working part time.  The problem was that her treatments were expensive, far more expensive than could be paid by a Wendy's salary, which was the only job he could hold.  Cole had been frantic.  His mother was getting worse by the day, but nobody wanted to hire a gangly, inexperienced seventeen year old.  So when a guy had come to him and offered him a job dealing cocaine, it had been the miracle Cole hadn't dared hope for.

 

Dealing paid well, better than Wendy's at any rate, and finally Cole had scraped up the cash to pay for the first couple treatments.  For a brief time, his mother had gotten better.  Her color improved, she sang his favorite melodies again as she cooked dinner, and their small house lost the stench of impending death.

 

But just as Cole had dared to think that this arrangement could work, his boss had been busted for possession with intent to sell, and their entire chapter of drug dealing had collapsed along with him.  Cole was left with no job, no plan, and no aid for a mother who was slowly yet inevitably fading away as her disease spread.  Where could he go for help?  A poor Latino boy in San Bernardino, California, where poor Latino boys were a dime a dozen?

 

He'd done the only thing he could think of.  He'd asked around with his old dealer buddies (all of whom were laying as low as they could get after the topple of their employer), and after a lot of threats, cajoling, and alcohol, one of them caved to Cole's inquiries, and told him where to find the big boss, the kingpin of the whole black market operation.  It had taken some finagling, and Cole had almost been shot twice in the process, but in the end his silver tongue came through and Cole was allowed an audience with the Big Man.

 

All Cole had wanted was another dealing job.  His mother was sicker than ever, feeble and rarely lucid.  Without her treatments she would undoubtedly die before too long.  How long, Cole didn't know, and he wasn't willing to find out.  But the Patrón had been impressed by his tenacity.  Rather than killing him for his insolence, or just giving him his job back, he'd offered Cole a new opportunity.  The moral areas were a little gray, he'd said, but the pay made dealing look like a joke.  Cole didn't need long to consider.  Morally gray had never given him pause.

 

That was when he'd been introduced to Julien, the smarmy asshole he would be working under, and given his first delivery run.  Only the delivery wasn't cocaine this time.  Julien had lifted the lid of the crate to show him a little girl, no more than six, trussed up, drugged, and awaiting shipment.  Cole hadn't hesitated for a moment to load her into the back of a rented truck.  The kingpin had been right; the pay wasn't even comparable.  Suddenly, medical bills didn’t seem that steep after all.

 

And Cole had never left the business.  Who cared about a couple of bratty kids?  It more than paid for his mother’s treatments, and that was all that mattered.  Sure, he’d been a little uncomfortable in the beginning, but that had been a fleeting weakness.  By the time he had partnered up with Damien, he had lost track of the number of runs he had made.  His mother never learned the true source of his funds for her.  When she succumbed to her illness, a few years after he had entered into the business, Cole had moved her into an expensive care facility, and ensured that her last days were the happiest she would ever have.  Thirteen years ago, on the day of her funeral, Cole had broken down and wept, standing in front of her gleaming casket, the most lavish that he could find.  It had been the last time he had cried in as long as he could remember.

 

After her death, Cole saw no reason to leave his line of work.  School no longer held any attraction for him, and he’d gotten by well enough on his instincts for this long.   _You’re like a fox_ , a fellow colleague had once told him.  Quick and clever, but watching nobody’s back except his own.  He hadn’t been far off the mark either.  After his mother passed, Cole was left with no attachments, and therefore no one to care for but himself.  Cole would have cheerfully thrown anyone under the bus if it meant saving his own skin; had done so on several occasions, in all honesty.  He was proud of his ability to read people, and of his gilded tongue that had rescued him from more sticky situations than he could count.

 

So when he was rudely snatched from the warm embrace of unconsciousness with a splash of icy water to the face, he had the foresight to keep his head and remain calm.  Damien, on the other hand, did not, and woke with a flurry of thrashing and muffled curses as the spray from his own bucket of water sprinkled the back of Cole’s neck and arms.

 

Cole opened his eyes reluctantly.  The lamps on the table and in the corners of the room had been switched on, and even that feeble light was sufficient to send skewers of pain ripping through his skull.  An involuntary groan fell from his lips as he blinked lethargically, vision blurring with tears.  His head was pounding in a worryingly concussion-like mein.  He could feel a bruise forming where that guy had punched him in the jaw, and his nose was completely blocked with what was probably blood.  It wouldn’t be too much of a reach to guess that it was broken.  To cap it all off, rough ropes had been cinched around his wrists, chest, and ankles, binding him tightly to his chair, and a stale gag had been crammed into his mouth.  Just fucking spectacular.  Covertly, he tested his bonds.  They were unyielding.

 

God, when they got out of this, whatever it was, he was going to _murder_ Damien.  This was the last fucking straw.  Cole had put up with his bar fights and testosterone fueled brawls for far too long, soothing ruffled tempers and whisking Damien away when it was clear that men were spoiling for his blood.  But no one had ever been incensed enough to follow them back to their hotel, let alone ambush them and tie them up.  Whatever Damien had done, he must have seriously pissed someone off to drive them to this.

 

Cole winced as his head bumped the back of the chair.  Fucking _ow_.  Yeah, Damien had definitely gotten these guys angry.  It was coming back to him now.  They had been walking into their hotel room when Damien had dropped like a sack of potatoes, and some kid was leveling a gun at him.  Then nothing.  Cole gingerly stretched his jaw around the gag.  Kid had a damned solid right hook.

 

“Hey, wake up.”  Fingers clicked impatiently under his nose.

 

Cole sighed inwardly.  It seemed the good night’s sleep he’d been looking forward to was going to have to wait for another day.  Fixing his most wide-eyed, innocent look onto his face, he raised his head and obediently met the stare of the man crouching in front of him.  What he saw was not encouraging.  

 

The man was powerfully built.  Broad shoulders loomed above a thick chest and burly arms, muscles clearly defined even through the material of his stiff jacket.  Days old growth furred his square chin.  As he straightened to his full height, Cole could see that he was tall, maybe almost tall enough to rival Damien, given a few more inches.  He had a stern face, with brooding eyebrows and short, dark hair that curled around his forehead and ears.  Bright gray-green eyes surveyed Cole with a frosty intensity and it took everything he had not to squirm away from such a concentrated glare.  Instead, Cole braced himself, and projected as much confusion onto his features as he could manage, looking in bewilderment up at the man whose cold expression remained unwavering.

 

The man stepped to the side and out of Cole’s line of sight.  “Stop that,” he commanded sharply to a still swearing and struggling Damien.  His voice was deep and gruff, with an air of authority that demanded compliance and expected nothing less.  Damien, of course, only increased his endeavors.  Cole could’ve rolled his eyes.  Damien had always lacked a certain instinct for knowing when to submit to anyone, even when it was in his best interest to do so.  Cole had never been sure if the cause of this deficiency was pride, spite, or plain stupidity, but no matter the case, these types of situations always seemed to exacerbate this particular handicap.

 

There was the harsh sound of a blow, and Damien’s chair jerked back against his own.  “I told you to shut it,” the man growled.   _Come on, you moron_ , Cole urged. _Now is not the time to piss this guy off more than he already is._  Mercifully, Damien did settle down, though Cole could practically feel the outrage rolling off his partners skin.   _No way is he going to be able to control himself for long_ , Cole thought.  He needed to hurry this along before Damien made things even worse.

 

Cole scanned the room.  The curtains had been firmly closed.  Likewise, the peeling door was locked, the chain secured.  His mind worked furiously.  How close were they to the front office?  Could he somehow make so much noise it would attract the attention of whoever was manning the desk?  But no, that wouldn’t work.  This man would force him into silence long before anybody came to investigate, and that was assuming they would appear in the first place.  There was a reason Cole and Damien chose dives like this to crash in.  People in these places generally kept to themselves.  Goddamned irony.

 

Cole allowed his gaze to continue to wander.  If they were on their own, they would need some weapons.  Cole didn’t bother carrying a gun around with him all the time -not for simple scouting missions anyway- and he was seriously starting to regret that decision.  His favored Colt should be safely tucked away beneath his mattress, but unless these ropes came off, it was going to have to stay there.

 

A metallic rasp resonated from his right, and the man moved back into his field of vision,  sliding a burnished dagger from its sheath.  Cole swallowed nervously.  The man stopped in front of his chair and pinned him with a steely look.

 

“I’m going to take your gag out now,” he informed Cole.  The blade of the knife caught the light as he lifted it level with Cole’s nose.  “You make any sound and this will find a new home between your ribs.  Got it?”

 

Cole nodded hurriedly.  The man reached over and Cole did his best not to flinch as calloused fingers loosened the knot at the base of his head.  The gag fell away.  The knife glinted in warning as he licked his lips, but Cole kept his word and remained quiet.  It wasn’t like shouting for help would do him any good.

 

The man grunted, casting a glance to the side before marching around to Damien and duplicating the process.  Curious, Cole followed the man’s gaze and realized with a shock that a second figure was leaning against the wall to his left.  Why hadn’t he noticed him before?  The man -boy really- was watching the proceedings like a hawk, tanned arms crossed over his chest.  His spiked hair was unkempt, as though he had repeatedly run his hands through it over a short period, and his brilliant green eyes seemed sunken, dark shadows smudged below them.  He had the same sturdy frame as the first man, though he was far younger and  a touch shorter.  

 

Cole examined him carefully, his bow lips and lightly freckled cheeks, and a horrible suspicion began to take shape in his mind.  The kid’s shoulders were slumped wearily.  Lines were carved unhappily around his eyes and mouth, the latter of which was pulled down in an unconscious frown.  He probably wasn’t even aware of the way he hunched over, as though some unbearable weight pressed him relentlessly towards the ground.

 

And it all fell into place.  The kid was handsome, almost bordering pretty, and he was exactly Damien’s type.  Jesus _Christ_.  Damien had raped the kid.  If ever Cole had wanted to wring his partner’s neck, it was now.  What had that idiot been thinking, leaving so much evidence that the kid would be able find him again?  Hadn’t Cole told him enough times to always, _always_ cover his trail?  And now the kid’s father had them completely at his disposal, all because had to shove his dick into anything that took his fancy, whether they wanted it or not!

 

Cole reigned in hard on his burst of anger.  He could tear Damien a new one later.  For now, he needed to focus on getting them the hell out of there.

 

Boots thumped softly on carpet as the man reappeared and dropped the two crude gags on the nearest bed.  Cole fidgeted uncomfortably as he turned, flipping the knife offhandedly around his fingers.  The silence stretched.  The only sound to break it was the breathy rattle of the dying radiator.  Cole found himself looking at the floor, the ceiling, his ankles lashed to the chair legs, anywhere but at the grim man and the unreadable expression he wore.  It was like trying to stare down the definition of stoicism.

 

“So.”  The word dropped from the man’s lips, one syllable suddenly an accusation as it lodged in the air between them.  “Damien Cawfield and Cole Bennett,” he continued slowly.  “You’re a tough pair to track down.”

 

Cole’s brow furrowed.  How the hell did he know their real names?  It’d been months, maybe even years, since he’d abandoned that name and adopted uncountable aliases in its stead. _You bastard, Julien.  “It’ll be like you never existed” my ass,_ Cole concluded with another stab of fury.  Was everyone he worked with an incompetent fool?  How could Julien always complain about Cole’s work, when Julien himself couldn’t do something as simple as erasing files?

 

_Focus Cole, focus.  One problem at a time._

 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Cole ventured, in a timorous, beseeching tone.  “Who is that?  My name is James Cooper, and this is my colleague” -and here he laid the slightest stress over the word.  It never hurt to disassociate as much as possible from Damien when being held at knifepoint.  If things took a turn for the worse he could always plead ignorance to Damien’s misdeeds and direct the attention back to his partner- “my colleague Brandon Stacy.  We’re here on a...”  Cole’s mouth closed with an audible snap as the point of the dagger pricked his stomach.

 

“Listen up, jackass.”  The man placed the edge of the blade under Cole’s chin.  Cole’s breathing stuttered to a halt.  “My patience level is at just about zero right now.  So cut the bullshit, Bennett, before I really lose my temper.”

 

At his words, the first inklings of fear wedged themselves in Cole’s throat.  He started to reply but froze as a bead of blood welled up from beneath the razor tip.  His eyes darted up to the man’s, then quickly away, and he shivered at the murderous intent he saw there.

 

“Let’s try this again,” the man said.  “And it’s no use trying to bluff your way out of this.  We know exactly who you boys are.”  He crossed over to the rickety table sitting by the door and lifted a stack of objects from one of the chairs.  “Recognize these?” he rumbled.  Tinkling echoed around the room as a pile of handcuffs landed on the floor at Cole’s feet.  Cole gulped.  “Or maybe this?”  The man brandished the case of sedatives in front of Cole’s face.  Shit.

 

‘Sir, if you’d just allow me to explain-” Cole tried.

 

“ _Explain!?_ ” the man roared, his composed mask slipping away.  “ _And how do you plan on explaining this!?_ ”  He slammed the remaining item he held into Cole’s lap.  Cole stared at it, uncomprehending.   _The hell…?_

 

And then he recognized it, and panic swept over him.  It was the _book_ , Damien’s fucking book that he had stuffed with the pictures of his favorite deliveries.  Hadn’t Cole found it and ordered him to throw the damn thing away?  That should have been the end of it!  What the _hell_ had Damien been thinking when he’d saved it?  Didn’t he realize how incriminating that book was?  That _fucking idiot!_

 

Cole sensed his façade of innocent bystander was crumbling away. “Sir, I have never seen this before in my-”

 

The fist appeared out of nowhere.  Cole’s head whipped to the side, and pain blossomed over his already swollen cheek bone, cranking his headache to a level previously unheard of.  Cole gasped breathlessly and squeezed his eyes shut.  His brain felt like it was being put through a blender.

 

A beat later, a hand had gripped his chin and wrenched it back around.  Cole forced his eyes open and found himself nose to nose with the man, whose face was suddenly alight with rage.  

 

“I swear to God Bennett, if the next words outta your mouth aren’t a straight answer, I’m gonna do something we’ll both regret, because I am about two seconds away from cutting out that lying tongue of yours.  Have I made myself clear?”  He leaned even closer, their breaths mingling together.  “Because trust me, I’ll get my answers from you one way or another, and it doesn’t bother me one bit how much blood of yours I spill to get them.”

 

“Dad, " a low voice interjected.  It was the first word the kid had spoken the entire time.

 

The man looked over his shoulder, eyes dark.  “What is it, Dean?”

 

Dean pushed himself away from the wall, hands jammed into his jacket pockets.  He jerked his head towards the tiny bathroom.  “Can I have a word?”

 

Gradually, the man released his hold on Cole’s chin and trooped after his son.  They both vanished inside the dingy room, though it was surely a tight fit for them both.  Cole noticed the door remained slightly ajar, and every so often, the man would sneak a peek to the side to ensure his two captives hadn’t moved.

 

Cole exhaled shakily and clenched his hands into fists to still their quaking.  For a moment, he had been sure the man was going to kill him, that the blade kissing his skin would slash his throat in two.  The man could have done it too; Cole had seen it in his eyes.  But there was something else, something familiar there as well.  Cole had seen that expression before.  Someone else had looked at him like that, with such implacable determination, such venom, though those eyes had been clouded and hazy as drugs dulled their comprehension.  And there was more too.  The narrow line of the man’s nose, the turn of his lips.  The way he carried himself, shoulders high and head lifted proudly, so confident in his movements.  It all rang warning bells that refused to cease.

 

Cole’s heart skipped a beat.  The boy from their last sale.  That pain-in-the-ass little kid had given him this exact glare, right after Damien had caught him scrambling out their living room window.  After Damien had slammed the boy against the wall, leaving him disoriented and dazed, he’d dragged the boy back down the hallway by his hair and threw him bodily back onto the grungy bed.  Cole had trailed behind them, and waited until Damien had the boy’s wrists firmly pinned before he approached with a syringe in hand.  The boy had cursed and flailed as Cole stuck the needle into his arm, but all too soon the potent sedatives had kicked in.  Just as the boy’s eyes had slid shut, he’d fixed Cole with that precise stare the man had directed at him not two minutes ago.

 

How could he have missed the resemblance?  Now that he knew what to search for, it was plain to Cole how similar the man and boy actually were.  Same nose, same lips, same self-assured bearing.  How could they be anything less than father and son?

 

But no.  That couldn’t be right.  That couldn’t be right, because if it was, that meant that Damien hadn’t raped this Dean kid.  It would mean that Dean and his father had tracked them down -which was an impossible occurrence in itself- because Cole and Damien had sold off part of their family to the highest bidder.  And _that_ would would be so much worse than a simple, unwilling fuck.  

 

From what seemed like years ago, Cole remembered Damien’s hesitant statement. _As far as I can tell, there’s a father and a brother_ , he’d said. _But we gotta be careful on this one.  The Dad looks like an ex-military type… The type you wouldn’t wanna meet down a dark alley.  Or any alley, for that matter_.  Cole had laughed him away, cocky idiot that he was.  Oh God, it couldn’t be.

 

The bathroom door swung open, and the man stepped out, followed almost immediately by Dean, who wasted no time in resuming his previous stance against the wall.  The man stopped in front of Cole.  He cleared his throat, and even that benign noise seemed like a concealed threat that had Cole fighting the urge to cower.

 

“Let’s recap,” the man began, the knife reappearing in his hand.  “Just so we’re all on the same page.  You, Cole Bennett, and you, Damien Cawfield, kidnap children and sell them to sick fucks such as yourself, for the money and for whatever twisted kicks you get out of doing it.  Sound about right?”  The blade flickered as it danced between his fingers.  Cole fidgeted.  He couldn’t say yes.  That would be signing his own death warrant.

 

“Alright yes!” Damien burst out from behind him.

 

_Fucking damn it._

 

“Ok?  We take kids and sell them.  You were right.  Happy?” Damien spat.

 

“Not really,” the man replied dryly.  He left Cole to squat down in front of Damien instead, exiting Cole’s line of sight.  Cole swiveled his head as far to the side as he could, straining to see what the man was doing, but it was no good.  Damien’s wide shoulder completely blocked his view.

 

“So you admit that all these pictures are children you have sold?” the man asked.

 

“Yup, every one.”  Damien even had the balls to sound smug about it.  “And those are just my favorites.  My greatest hits, if you wanna put it that way.”  His voice lowered conspiratorially.  “Why?  You like what you see?  You lookin’ to buy?”

 

“Damien, _shut up_ ,” Cole hissed frantically.  He heard a rush of movement, and the back of Damien’s chair banged hard against his own.

 

“Don’t,” the man said, deathly quiet.  “Don’t you ever bring me down to your level, you fucking pedophile.  Count yourself lucky that I’m not wasting a bullet on your pathetic hide.”

 

“Fuck you,” Damien snarled.  “What the hell do you want then?  You a cop?  Who…”  He petered off.  “Hold on.  I know you!  I-!”  He seemed to register what he was about to blurt out, and cut off abruptly.  But the damage was done.

 

“What, can’t even say it?” the man challenged.  “You finally worked it out?  How long were you watching us, watching _him_?  How long after you first saw him that you decided to _kidnap my son?!_ ”  His voice rose and rose, until he was bellowing into Damien’s face, loud enough to make Cole’s ears ring.  Again, Damien’s chair smashed back into Cole’s, and Damien let out a grunt of pain.  The man took a steadying breath.  “What,” he asked evenly, “have you done with my son?”

 

What transpired next was an event that would haunt Cole for the rest of his life.  Years later, he would speculate what might have happened had he intervened.  If he had simply cut Damien off before his partner could utter a word.  How might the future have ended up different?  But he did not interrupt Damien, coward as he was, and Damien, being Damien, opened his mouth, and recited the worst thing it was possible to say.

 

“You… you’re that little brat’s father?” he inquired disbelievingly, and merely from that, Cole knew a callow grin was spreading across his partner’s face.  Damien smacked his lips loudly.  “Well, I gotta hand it to you, I wouldn’ta thought you’dve had it in ya.”

 

“Damien, what the fuck are you doing?” Cole whispered in horror, but Damien ploughed on.

 

“‘Cause let me tell you, your kid?  God, he was perfect when we laid him out on that bed.  Sure, he fought in the beginning, but we got him to behave quick enough, didn’t we Cole?  Oh man, all the things I wanted to do to him...  You should’ve seen how he looked after I-”

 

The end of his sentence was swallowed by a howl of undiluted fury.  Wood splintered as Damien’s chair crashed into Cole’s, snapping the smaller man’s head forward and causing stars to flash behind his eyes.  

 

“What the fuck did you do to my brother, you sick son of a bitch?!”

 

Damien yelled, accompanied by the unmistakable slap of knuckles meeting flesh.

 

“Dean, stop!”

 

“If you touched him, I’ll kill you myself, you-”

 

Damien cried out again, pain and fear evident in his tone.

 

“Dean, that’s enough!”

 

“You bastard, _nobody_ touches my brother!  Got that? _Nobody!_ ”

 

Something crunched, and Damien screamed.

 

“ _You’re never going to hurt him_ ever _again, you got me?  I’m going to-_ ”

 

“ _Dean!_ ”

 

“Dad, let me go, dammit!  You heard him!”

 

“Dean, I said _enough_!”

 

Damien moaned.

 

“But Dad-”

 

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” the man thundered, and Cole swore the windows rattled in their frames.  “If you can’t control yourself, you’re no good here!  Either get a grip, or get out!”

 

Something smashed.  From the sound of it, Dean had thrown the cheap coffee maker into the opposite wall.

 

“Well?” the man demanded.

 

“Fine!”

 

“ _Dean_.”  It was a warning.

 

“...Yes, Sir.”  Dean subdued himself grudgingly.  A few seconds later, Cole watched as he retreated to his patch of wall, rubbing his knuckles in frustration.  Damien’s blood was stained across his skin.

 

From behind Cole, Damien whimpered.  Chair legs scraped on carpet as the man dragged him into his original position at Cole’s back.  Cole craned his neck around, but all he could make out of his partner was the edge of one swollen cheek.  Damien’s sniveling continued.

 

“Oh, shut up,” the man said shortly.  He maneuvered past Cole and retrieved one of the gags lying abandoned on Cole’s bed.  He circled back to Damien, and Damien’s hushed mewls grew muffled, then ceased altogether.

 

The man stomped around in front of Cole, and Cole reared back, trepidation rushing through him.  The man stooped down and grabbed a handful of Cole’s dark hair.  Cole wriggled, protesting wordlessly, then stiffened as he felt the chilled point of the knife tease the corner of his left eye.

 

“I am done screwing around,” the man panted.  He looked it too.  His hair was awry, and his mouth was bleeding freely, presumably from when he had wrestled Dean away from Damien.  Cole found himself shrinking away from the manic glint in his eyes.  “I am going to ask one more time.”  The dagger rested millimeters from Cole’s pupil, which was contracted with terror.  “Where. Is. My. Son?”

 

Cole’s throat worked, but no sound emerged.  His tongue was numb, useless.  “I…” he squeaked.  “I don’t know.”

 

The man bared his teeth.  “Wrong answer.”

 

The dagger blurred as it darted forward, and then the left side of the room went black.  Agony burst through Cole’s eye like fireworks in the newfound darkness, and he _screamed_ as he felt the tip of the knife pop through the thin membrane of his iris like an overfull balloon.  He couldn’t see, he couldn’t _see_ , yet he could feel the fluid of his punctured eye as it welled over his eyelashes and streaked down his face.  Cole shrieked once more as the blade pulled free with a grotesque squelch.

 

“Oh God, oh my God, my eye, my _eye_ ,” he babbled insensibly.  The hand in his hair wrenched his head up, and the knife was _right there_ , parts of his ruined cornea stuck to the metal.  He twisted to the side and vomited.  He vomited until nothing remained and he was left hanging over the arm of his chair, retching clear bile that dripped from his lips in long, sticky strands.  Someone was moaning, a continuous, piteous keen.  It was _him_ , Cole realized, but couldn’t bring himself to stop, not when blood was leaking from his mangled eye socket like a ribbon of crimson tears.

 

Fingers threaded through his hair and yanked him back to a sitting position.  “You can’t pass out yet,” the man informed him.  “We’re not done here.”  The man had to be made of granite, or some similar, unfeeling substance.  No human should have been able to observe so dispassionately the damage he had wrought upon another not seconds ago.  Even Dean appeared halfway sick as he hovered behind his father, a green tinge to his cheeks.

 

The knife poised over Cole’s remaining socket, the end slick with blood.  “You have ‘till the count of three to tell me where my son is,” the man threatened.  “One-”

 

“I don’t know, I don’t know!  Oh God, I swear, I don’t know!”  Words spilled from Cole like a broken dam.  “We don’t handle the clients!  We’re just the middlemen, I swear!  We provide the kids, he provides the buyers, you know?  It’s not like this is an over-the-counter business or nothing!  I swear, I swear I don’t know where your kid is, I swear!  Please, please, oh God, my eye…”

 

The man frowned.  “You said “he” provides the buyers.  Who is he?”

 

“J-julien.  His name is Julien, he’s like, our partner or boss or whatever!  He g-gets the money from the client then pays us, ok?”  Cole shook in the chair, sobbing.

 

“Where is Julien now?”

 

“I dunno man, I promise!  He could be anywhere!  We only ever see him when he comes out to check over the kids we’re about to sell.”

 

The man set the knife down, drumming his knuckles on his leg frustratedly.  Cole sagged in relief.  “Please,” he begged.  “Please let me go.  I swear I won’t-”

 

“Shut up,” the man ordered absently.  He looked over his shoulder at Dean, who was biting his lip anxiously, skin pale and wan.  “This Julien,” the man barked, returning his attention to Cole.  “He would know the buyers, right?  Who he’s recently sold to?”

 

“Yeah, p-probably…”  Cole allowed his sentence to die as the man shoved away from him, crossing to the table by the door and rummaging among the items strewn across it.

 

“Here we go,” he muttered, striding back to Cole’s side.  In his hand, he held Cole’s slim, silver cell phone.  He flipped it open, pressed a series of buttons, then thrust it under Cole’s aching nose.  “Is this Julien’s number?”

 

Cole squinted at the blurry screen.  “Yeah, that’s h-his.”

 

“When the hell did you figure out how phones worked?” Dean broke in, some of the vigor restored to his words.

 

“Caleb took pity on me,” the man answered.

 

Dean snorted.  “‘Course he did.”

 

“What are you going to do?” Cole implored, bringing both men’s focus back to the matter at hand.  “Please, just let me go…”

 

“Maybe.  First, we have to make a call.”  The man dashed Cole’s hopes as quickly as he had raised them.

 

“Wh-what do you mean?”

 

“You’re going to find out who bought my son.”

 

“Wait, what!”  Cole shook his head hysterically.  “How am I supposed to do that?”

 

“You’ll think of something.”  The man sounded unconcerned.  “Tip him off and you’ll lose more than just an eye.”  That was all the warning the man gave before he raised the dialing phone to Cole’s ear.  It rang once, twice, thrice, then a click, and discordant music blared through the small earpiece.

 

“Hello?”  

 

The familiar, oily voice had never been so welcome. _For once in your life,_ Cole pleaded silently.   _Help us, please._

 

“H-hello, Julien?” he said weakly, allowing a quaver to infect his tone.

 

But for as long as Cole had known him, Julien had always been a self-centered, narcissistic dick, and now was no exception.  “Cole?”  Julien had to shout to make himself audible over the music.  “What the hell do you want?  If this is another complaint about the job you’re working…”

 

“No, no,” Cole cut him off hastily, any vestiges of faith leeching away.  It was ironic really, how often Julien had nosed around in their business, and the one instance that Cole needed him he was completely uninterested in Cole’s predicament.  “I, ah, we, uh…  I think I’ve found us a client.”  He winced as the knife dug into the soft flesh under his chin.  What did the man want from him?  It was the best he could think of at such short notice!

 

“A new client?”  Julien sounded suspicious.  “Are you -oh sweetheart, yeah…”  He ended on a pornographic groan.  “Right there darlin’, don’t stop- what do you mean, a new client?  How did he find you?”

 

Cole curled his lip.  Leave it to Julien to be engaging in such… personal activities when answering a phone call.  “Marco sent him over to us, and he says he’s looking to buy.”

 

“You retard, Cole!  How the fuck do you know - _Jesus, watch the teeth, you slut!_ \- how the fuck do you know he ain’t a cop?  And you met with him!”

 

“I called Marco to confirm, asshole.  I know how to do my job,” Cole answered, none of the usual passion to his words.  How could he get a message to Julien without a dagger in his gut?

 

Less suspicious yet still wary, Julien confirmed, “you’re sure here?  We let one wrong guy in…”

 

“Yes, I’m sure!” Cole snapped.  He had never been less tolerant of Julien’s constant insinuations that he was untrustworthy, and a liability.  Even if that might have been true in the current situation.

 

“...Alright, fine.  Is he there right now?  I’ll speak to him myself.”

 

The blade jabbed again into Cole’s jaw.  “Ah, um, no, he left already.  He, uh, told me he wanted to meet some other customers first, if that would be possible?  You know, see if they liked how their purchases turned out?”

 

“Cole, have you been fucking drinking?  You sound like you’re coming down off a bender or something.”

 

Another warning prod.  “Ouch!  I, no, of course not!  I’m just getting sick, that’s all.  Probably caught it from the shitty motel.”

 

“Whatever.  A bit higher sweetheart, that’s it.  Be a good girl and get me another drink, go on.”

 

Cole grimaced.  His vision -what was left of it- was swimming drunkenly, and he was alternately too hot and too cold.  His mauled eye throbbed with a vengeance.  “So, Julien, think you could make that happen?” he prompted.  He only wanted this torture to end.  “Who was the guy we just sold to?  Maybe they could meet up somewhere, or, you know…”  His voice died away uncertainly.  

 

In the background, the pulsing song changed, replaced by one even faster, the beat reverberating through the phone like a burst of gunfire.  “I’ll tell you what,” Julien said at last.  “I doubt your man would be able to get a meeting with our last client.  His name’s Cheverill, and he’s a stuck-up bastard, to be sure.  He’d probably never agree to see your man if I asked him -finally!  How long does it take to grab a drink, huh?  Get back on your knees!- where was I?  Oh, right.  He won’t agree to a meeting, but I can do you one better.

 

“Cheverill lives up in Michigan, on the Upper Peninsula, some little town called Marquette.  Anyway, we got a bunch of clients up there, apparently no one asks too many questions about what goes on at home, if you know what I mean.  I heard a group of them formed some gentleman’s club, or something.  You know, smoke cigars and compare whipping techniques, or whatever the hell they do.  Cheverill’s a pretty regular participant.”

 

“That, uh, sounds perfect.  Just what the guy was looking for,” Cole mumbled miserably.

 

“Here, let me get you the information.  I think they meet every other Thursday -Get off me, bitch!  Find someone else to blow!”

 

Disinterestedly, Cole noticed the man gesturing for Dean to grab a pen and paper.  Julien came back on the line and rattled off a spew of locations, times, and passwords that Cole ignored.  He was finding it hard to concentrate on anything at all, really.  The burn from his butchered eye was spreading down his cheeks and through the back of his head, which had been hurting since he woke up in the first place.  Every blink from his torn eyelid sent fresh needles boring through the socket. _How did it come to this?_ he wondered blearily. _It was just supposed to be a job.  Not my entire life._

 

“...Cole?  You got all that?”  It was hard to miss that Julien was antsy, eager to hang up and get back to his party.  Or prostitute.  Most likely a prostitute.

 

“Yeah, I got it.  Thanks,” Cole supplied automatically.  He’d never felt so tired.

 

“Excellent.  Hurry up with the next job, okay?  Then we can lay low for awhile, enjoy the high life.”

 

“Right, sure.  Bye Julien.”

 

The line went dead, along with Cole’s final chance of salvation.  The man shut the phone and tossed it mindlessly onto the bed behind him.

 

“Dean?  You write everything down?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Alright then.”  The man stood with a decisive nod.  “We’d better get going then.  We’ve got a lot of driving ahead of us if we’re going to make it to Marquette by Thursday.”

 

“W-wait!”  Cole lifted his head, although it seemed fifty pounds heavier than it should have weighed.  “What are you going to do with us?  I g-gave you what you wanted.  Please, let me go…”  He wilted under the disgusted glare the man directed at him.

 

“Let you go?” he repeated, as though the very idea made him ill.

 

“Y-you said, maybe…”

 

“I lied,” the man interrupted bluntly.  He crouched down on a level with Cole, meeting Cole’s single eye with an expression of such loathing that Cole trembled, wishing he could sink through the floor simply to escape it.  “You must not have children, Mr. Bennett,” he murmured quietly, his words for Cole’s ears only.  “So you can never know the pain I felt, when I learned exactly what you had done with my son.  But I know that nothing I do could make you feel what I felt, what I still feel.  If it were up to me, I would stay, and draw out your death for _weeks._  But my son needs me, and he is a thousand times more important than you.”

 

He pushed himself to his feet and, in a clearer voice, added, “I guess allowing you to rot in jail for the rest of your life will have to do instead.”

 

Cole paled slightly, but covered it with a feeble, condescending laugh.  “That won’t happen,” he said arrogantly.  “Nothing can be traced to us.  All this?”  He indicated the motel room with the shrug of a shoulder.  “We are the victims here.  And even with the book, it’s all circumstantial.  We were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, and two men -who apparently sell children, how depraved is that?- grabbed us and took us to their motel room to satisfy their homicidal tendencies.  It was such a traumatic experience, but thank Goodness the police arrived and scared them off.”  He smiled grimly, displaying the flecks of blood in his teeth.

 

The man bobbed his head gravely.  “That’s a good story,” he agreed.  “And the police might even have believed it.  That is, they might have if we didn’t have this.”  He extended a hand to Dean who, smirking, reached into his jacket and produced a square, black object which he pressed into his father’s palm.  The man hit a button on the side, and immediately, a voice issued from the object.  A _very_ unwelcome voice.

 

_“Let’s recap.  Just so we’re all on the same page.  You, Cole Bennett, and you, Damien Cawfield, kidnap children and sell them to sick fucks such as yourself, for the money and for whatever twisted kicks you get out of doing it.  Sound about right?”_

_“Alright, yes!  Ok?  We take kids and sell them.  You were right.  Happy?”_

 

The man paused the recording.  Cole stared at him, a doom-laden pit suddenly opening in his chest.  It wasn’t possible.  He _couldn’t_ be going to prison.

 

The man grinned maliciously.  “I’ll just leave this here for the police.  I think they’d appreciate it, don’t you?  I wonder if they’ll even bother with a trial.”  

 

He turned and followed Dean to the door.  Dean slipped out with a final glance at the bloodsoaked room, but the man hesitated.  Carefully, he wiped any prints from the recorder and laid it on the rickety table, along with the case of drugs.  He picked up the scrapbook as well and extracted the photo of his son before that too, was set down and cleaned of prints.

 

Then he looked back at Cole, bound and beaten, tied helplessly to his chair.  Cole met his gaze desperately, searching for any hint of mercy.

 

“Cole Bennett,” the man announced.  “May you burn in hell.”

 

Cole blinked, and he was gone.  Cole was alone.  As the shadows set in, he put his head down and, for the first time in thirteen years, tears splashed down his bruised cheeks.  Twenty five minutes later, when sirens wailed down the highway and red-blue lights flashed through the wispy curtains, he had yet to bring himself to stop.

_I’m so sorry, Mom._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, okay, I'm finally back to posting on here, and I'm probably going to upload about six chapters in a row as my apology gift for the absence.

_I am standing in the foyer of a small, moonlit house.  The floor is wooden, and old boards creak below my feet as I shift, looking around.  Boots and shoes are piled messily along one wall, coats hanging in rows like soldiers above them.  There is a doorway to my right.  Through it, I can see stairs- their integrity questionable -ascending into blackness.  It is dark.  Nightmares ooze down the steps in sticky strands, pooling bloody at the edges._

 

_Shadows ebb and flow around the corners of the room, like waves at low tide.  Their movements are skittish as they advance forward, then- pause.  The floors creak under their butterfly weight, noise a cannon blast in the hush.  Panic!  They balk at the sound, a flurry of scuffles as they fold themselves into hiding places too small to see.  A threat?  No.  One by one, they peek their heads out and taste at the air.  They take no notice of me, standing in their midst._

 

_I watch them for hours, as they dance with each other around the room.  Ebb and flow across the worn wooden boards.  Play hide and seek among the ranks of coats.  One bumps against my leg, stops.  Sniffs my ankle.  Pricks its kitten ears.  Gives my skin a tentative lick with a tiny, rasping tongue.  A brush of fur as it darts away, chest puffed out with its own daring._

 

_I watch them for hours._

 

_And suddenly the night is gone.  Unnoticed, the moon has lowered her bulbous body beneath the jagged line of the horizon, and the shadows are frightened away for good.  From a tall, thin window to my left comes the pale wash of dawn, the first fingers of golden light tinging the dark sky with streaks of citrus pink.  Veils of delicate clouds are kindled in a burst of orange and red, deep purple chasms lingering where the blush of daybreak cannot reach.  Apollo’s horses stamp impatiently at the reigns and surge forward.  The sun illuminates the east._

 

_I blink in the growing light.  Coats are standing at attention, waiting for their officer to sound the first orders of the day.  The gooey blackness coating the stairs dries, leaving scuffed wood and a cheaply patterned carpet behind.  I take a step forward, away from the stairs, and duck under a second doorway that opens into a cheery kitchen._

 

_I know this place.  There are the familiar cabinets lining the walls, painted chipped blue and aging white.  An island squats in the middle of the room, its tiled surface worn cloudy with time.  Wood smooths to linoleum beneath my feet, the groaning of boards replaced by the high squeaking of my shoes as I pause in the entrance.  A window on the far wall admits the not-quite incandescence of sunrise, the strange phenomenon where light seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.  From somewhere in the distance, I can hear the rumble of traffic, interspersed with the shrill twitter of birdsong.  I know this place.  We stayed here almost two months during my freshman year of highschool, just one more home in an endless line of motel rooms and rented apartments._

 

_In my world, home is a loose term.  Two months was practically a record._

 

_A man is standing in the center of the cramped, homey kitchen, leaning against the counter and watching the stars wink out, one after another.  The post-dawn radiance touches his short, spiked hair, transforming it into a golden halo wreathing the crown of his head.  Though his back is to me, I will never mistake the set of those broad shoulders, squared and proud, as though challenging the world and anything it dares to throw at him._

 

_“Dean?” I croak, an unexplainable feeling of loss taking shape in my chest.  The sight of him makes me want to cry, though I have no words to express the reason._

 

_My voice, quiet as it is, carries through the still, sun-streaked air.  Dean turns as though in slow motion.  His green eyes find mine, and he smiles easily, teeth flashing against his tanned, freckled cheeks.  With the window behind him, his cheekbones slice shadows across his face._

 

_“Hey, Sammy.  How’d you sleep?” he asks.  Something is wrong.  His smile is too wide, his words to hollow.  I take a hesitant step back._

 

_“Dean?”_

 

_He grins, all teeth, and I am reminded abruptly of a wolf when it lifts its lip to reveal rows of jagged fangs.  But that is ridiculous.  This is_ Dean _._

 

_“We gotta get going,” Dean says, moving towards me.  “You slept in too late again.  Dad’s waiting for us.”  I can’t help but shrink away as he marches past.  I hear the front door open, and his footsteps thump on the rickety porch._

 

_“Hey, Dean!  Wait up!”  I jog back into the foyer, the coats snapping salutes as I pass.  Dean is tapping his foot on the top step of the porch, eyebrow raised as I jerk to a stop.  I stare._

 

_A few moments ago, this house fronted a normal, slightly crappy urban street.  Where did it go?  Where are the cracked sidewalks and weeds pushing through the dirt lawns?  Where are the other houses, broken windows patched with cardboard and duct tape, listing drunkenly with every scrap of breeze?  There is no trace of them.  Instead, a jungle has sprouted up in their place._

 

_Dark trunks, branches furry with moss, press against the side of the house, extending out as far as I can see.  Vines clutch at the weathered siding, supporting colorful sprays of flowers that drip from the gutters like boughs of holly at Christmas.  It is eerily quiet, all sounds of traffic gone.  The birdsong has stopped.  There is no road, only a tunnel beginning at our porch and leading through the impassable undergrowth, continuing on for a hundred feet or so before twisting sharply to the left and forging on out of sight._

 

_Dean is looking at me expectantly.  “Well?” he asks.  “Come on, Sammy, you’re slowing us down.”  He strides down the tunnel, effortlessly dodging low hanging branches, and disappears around the bend._

 

_“Wait!” I call.  “Dean, wait for me!”  I hurry after him, feet pounding as I cross the threshold.  I’m about to head down the steps when a sudden click makes me pause.  The door has swung shut behind me.  Surprised, I pause and look back, watching in alarm as vines swiftly criss-cross over the door, snaking around each other in a green, living barrier.  Within seconds, all that remains of the house is a shifting wall of vegetation.  I can’t go back._

 

_I turn and run after my brother, tripping over roots that protrude from the springy forest floor.  “Dean!” I shout.  I don’t want to admit it but I’m scared.  Stray leaves and twigs whip my face, grab at my clothes.  I don’t want to be here.  I want to go back to the shoddy little house with its kitchen bathed in gold._

 

_There is no sign of Dean.  Shouldn’t I have reached him by now?  The tunnel stretches on, but he has vanished into its ominous recesses.  I stumble over an upraised root as I attempt to catch a glimpse of his leather jacket, but he has been well and truly swallowed by the jungle._

 

_“Dean?” I whisper._

 

_Any traces of the rising sun have faded.  The trees are thicker here, moss grown to heavy curtains that drape across their wide limbs.  A dense canopy arches over my head, thickets of leaves crowding together to hiss ghastly secrets into the gloom.  No light penetrates this impregnable ceiling._

 

_I slow to a steady lope, swatting away ropes of lichen that drape around my shoulders.  “Dean?” I yell.  My voice is absorbed by the layers of plants around me.  “Dean!” I try again.  A fallen branch grabs at my ankle and I crash to the ground.  My hands squelch through the soggy loam like quicksand.  Water soaks through the knees of my jeans and, sick of this jungle and the whole damn adventure, I start to drag myself back to my feet.  Except that I can’t.  My hands are stuck fast, buried beneath the forest floor.  I yank at them furiously, but only succeed in driving them further into the mud._

 

_“Dean!” I scream, a note of panic in my tone.  No matter what I do, I can’t free my hands from the sucking layers of dirt and decaying leaves.  But just when I think it can’t get worse, something wraps around my calf.  My heart hammering against my ribs, I twist, praying that it’s not a snake coming to eat me whole.  And I’m right; it’s not a snake, it’s a vine.  I kick out, and then a second vine winds over my foot, anchoring it to the ground.  A third loops around my waist, and I thrash against their hold as yet more vines erupt from the dirt and twine around my arms, my chest, my throat.  I’m helpless.   “Dean!” I beg.  “Where are you?  Help me, please!”_

 

_“Why do you always come crying to me, Sam?”  Dean’s voice is loud.  I sag in relief, struggling to bring my head up, but the path ahead of me is empty._

 

_“Dean?”_

 

_“I mean, seriously,” he continues.  I strain my eyes in the twilight, but I can’t find him anywhere.  “Can’t you, just once, do something for yourself?”  Dean’s derisive words echo in my ears.  Dean’s not here, I realize.  His voice emanates from the very trees themselves, from the darkness that skitters through their leaves._

 

_“You’re useless Sam,” Dean goes on.  He sounds warped, ugly.  Bitter.  “I always got stuck with your stupid, petty problems, because you couldn’t deal with them.  Did you ever consider that I had a life of my own?  That I wanted to do something besides hold your hand every moment of every day?”_

 

_The weight of the vines drives me to my elbows.  I try to gasp out a denial, but my ribs are being slowly constricted, crushing the air out of me._

 

_“No, you never did.  You’re a selfish bastard, Sam.  I’m done being your nursemaid.  Go find some other gullible sap’s life to ruin.”  His condemnation melts away into the trees, replaced by the rustle and slide of the vines._

 

_“Dean!” I plead, but vines wrap over my mouth, sealing my lips shut.  “Come back!” I want to shout, and “I’m sorry!”  But I can’t.  Dean is gone._

 

_Something is different.  The mud is higher than it was moments ago, lapping gently around my forearms.  It finally registers that I am sinking.  The vines are slowly yet inevitably pushing me deeper and deeper into the unforgiving forest floor.  Soon, the dirt will reach my nose.  When that happens, I will suffocate, and no one is coming to save me.  No one will care._

 

_I throw myself against my living prison, but already the mud has risen to my stomach.  A few more seconds and it flows over my shoulders.  Now my neck.  My chin.  The mud surges over my nose, and I can’t breathe.  I would scream, but I have no oxygen to give.  Cool waves of earth wash over my scalp, submerging me completely beneath the surface, and I am going to die alone, buried alive in this shallow, unmarked tomb.  My lungs burn.  Dirt fills my eyes, my nose, my ears.  I can’t hold out any longer.  I suck in a breath of clotted, foul-smelling soil-_

 

_And then the ground drops out from beneath me.  The vines have borne me through the forest floor until I broke through the other side.  I choke, gagging up hunks of clay as wind whips past my face.  I’m in free fall.  I paddle frantically at the open space around me, trying to orient myself, to get my feet under me before I make a crash landing on my side and shatter my spine into a hundred tiny shards.  But when I do land, it’s not the earth-shaking impact that I expected.  It can hardly be called an impact at all.  One moment I’m plummeting through the empty air, the next I’m lying on my back, pillows yielding beneath me.  I haven’t even had the wind knocked out of me._

 

_I lie there for a moment, goggling up at the ceiling and not quite able to believe that I’m not a bloody, unrecognizable smear.  My heart is still galloping against my ribs, my hair plastered against my forehead in a cold, how-the-hell-am-I-still-alive sweat.  I gulp in a tremulous lungful of air, and another.  When I finally feel like the adrenaline pumping through me won’t give me a heart attack, I prop myself up with my elbow and peer around at my new surroundings._

 

_The lighting is dim.  Low lamps burn on tables set throughout the room, reflecting off the dark red wallpaper like flickering hellfire.  The cloying, musky scent of smoke tickles my nose.  There is no door.  I’ve landed on a bed, a huge four poster that dominates the entire room, black sheets soft against my bare skin.  And my skin is fucking_ bare _.  Where the hell did my clothes go?_

 

_“You were always so pretty, Sammy.”_

 

_I jump about three feet at the unexpected voice.  My pulse, which had just been starting to slow its wild pace, triples.  I scramble to sit upright, except the vines are still there, coiled around my arms and legs like clingy, love-sick pythons._

 

_A hand brushes down my cheek.  “So pretty…” comes a melancholy sigh.  “Just like your mother.”_

 

_I whip my head around and squint at the indistinct figure above me, confusion squeezing my throat.  “D-dad?” I stutter.  Where did he come from?_

 

_The silhouette resolves itself into rugged features and saddened hazel eyes.  “Ah, Sam,” Dad whispers, carding a hand through my hair.  “You look just like her, you know.”  His fingers touch my lips almost reverently.  He smiles.  “You have her mouth.”_

 

_“Dad,” I choke out.  “What’s going on?”  I tug once more at the vines, only the vines have disappeared.  Thick lengths of chains have taken their place, jangling faintly as I move.  They wink sinuously in the low lighting, lazily avoiding my endeavors to bat them away.  Shackles at the ends clamp shut around my wrists and ankles, and pull me spread-eagle across the bed with a violent wrench.  I shout in shock and pain._

 

_Dad’s expression doesn’t change.  He acts like there is nothing wrong with watching his son being lashed naked to a bed.  He hums wistfully as his hand ghosts over my cheekbones, mapping the contours of my face._

 

_“Dad,” I try once more, hoping to wake him from whatever memory he’s lost in.  I don’t like the way his fingers stroke down my jaw.  Dad never touches me like this.  Dad’s trademarks are claps on the back and light cuffs to the back of the head.  This is different.  There is no frustration, no brusqueness to it.  It’s almost tender.  I turn my head away.  “Dad, why are you just standing there?  Help me.  Please.”  I rattle the chains pointedly._

 

_His large hand clamps over my chin and jerks me back to face him, forcing me to meet his eyes.  His forlorn dreaminess has been replaced by a sizzling, explosive rage._

 

_“How dare you ask me for_ anything _?” he roars, spittle peppering my skin.  “You killed her!  You killed my wife, and you have the nerve to pretend you’re my son?!”  I recoil from his harsh words and bruising hands, tongue working in protest, but he follows me relentlessly, fingers closing in iron bands around my neck._

 

_“We were happy before you came!” he bellows.  “We were a family!”  He presses down on my windpipe, making me cough and splutter as my air is cut off.  “But you ruined us, Sam!  You killed her, and look what happened to us!”_

 

_“No, I didn’t Dad, I swear!” I wheeze.  Black dots are beginning to crowd my vision.  The palm of his hand cracks against my cheek, so hard my teeth clack together.  Pain blooms fiercely and I taste blood.  I must have bitten my tongue._

 

_Dad_ hit _me.  The ability to speak deserts me.  I gape up at him, shocked into silence.  He glares back, loathing distorting his face into a snarl._

 

_“You’re a burden, Sam,” he spits.  “You always slowed us down, held us back.  You’re useless. A liability.  You’re not my son.”  He barks out a bitter laugh.  “You never were.”_

 

_The words hit me like gunshots.  “You… you don’t mean that,” I implore, feeling an icy dagger pierce my chest.  He stares at me impassively.  “Dad!”_

 

_A door appears in the wall behind him.  He turns his back on me and crosses to it, resting his palm on the knob.  “Shut up, Sam,” he says, without a hint of contrition.  “You’re someone else’s problem now.”  He opens the door._

 

_Light spills into the room, casting shadows across the face of the man lounging on the threshold.  The newcomer straightens eagerly when Dad beckons to him, and attempts to press a wad of cash into Dad’s hand.  “No.”  Dad stops him.  He shoots a final glance at me, stretched across the sheets with terror in my eyes.  “He’s not worth a cent.”  Dad brushes past the man and slams the door behind him.  The beam of light evaporates to nothing, and the door melts back into the wall as though it had never been._

 

_I’m trembling.  The chains clink softly as the man approaches me, the dusky lamplight slanting off of light brown hair.  A square, powerful jaw.  Cruel, thin lips.  “Shh, Samuel,” he coos.  He perches beside me on the bed and rests a hand on the exposed jut of my hip.  Cold seeps through my bones at the contact.  “You’re mine now.  Don’t fret, I’m going to take good care of you.  It’s alright now, shhh…”_

 

“Wake up now, come on.  It’s okay, you’re okay,” a low voice murmured. Strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me up and out of the nightmare.  I fought back instinctively, half-asleep, the groping fingers of my dream indistinguishable from those supporting me now.  “Hey, hey, calm down, I’ve got you, you’re safe.”  

 

A hand rubbed soothing circles between my shoulder blades as I shuddered and sobbed, grounding me as I fought back the monstrous fabrications of my own mind.  “That’s it, breath.  I’ve got you.  You’re safe now.”  I was tucked against a warm chest, and the man curled himself around me, shielding me from the unnamed phantoms stalking the edges of the room.  Blindly, I molded into the comfort of the embrace, listening to the steady stream of quiet reassurances whispered into my hair.  

 

By degrees, my hitching gasps evened out, my shaking ceased.  The horror of my dream dissipated like clouds burnt away by the sun.  A hand stroked my hair and I leaned into the touch, allowing the rhythm of the pounding heart beneath my cheek to lull me back to sleep.

 


	13. Chapter 13 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this isn't my favorite chapter, but here it is. Extra warnings for graphic non-con and manipulation.

If I were to write a book purely about the many unsavory situations I’ve woken up in, I’d have to write a fucking encyclopaedia, ‘cause honestly?  I’ve dealt with an impressive amount of weird ass shit in my life.  I’ve woken up on beds of shattered glass after being thrown through windows by overzealous ghosts;  I’ve woken up to a vampire sucking messily at my neck just before Dad’s machete separated her head from her shoulders.  A particularly memorable instance involved the members of an uncommonly devoted cult, who had me tied to a stone slab and were busy sprinkling rosemary and sage across my prone body when I finally regained consciousness.

But on the morning I opened my eyes, the foggy memory of nightmares and soothing words drifting somewhere in the corners of my mind, only to find myself snuggled into Cheverill’s chest, my cheek pressed over his heart and his arms wrapped protectively around me?  Well, suffice it to say that this one blows all competition out of the water.

It was the steady, warm exhales of air against my naked shoulder that gave it away.  Mainly the part where my shoulder was naked.  Which meant the rest of me was most likely naked as well.  My eyes snapped open and I recoiled sharply, flinching away from the hand Cheverill was methodically combing through my messy hair.  Cheverill’s other arm tightened around my back and he drew me easily back against the broad planes of his chest.  I let out a muffled grunt through the gag sitting between my teeth, realizing in horror that he had _draped_ himself around me.  And we had _slept_ like that.

“Awake at last, I see,” Cheverill chuckled, voice a low vibration in my ears.  “Must you always pollute these peaceful moments with your obstinate frigidity?  Won’t you savor it, just this once?”  His fingers returned to my hair and he hummed in contentment, like a cat, and tucked me closer.  

I lay stiffly in his arms, chewing furiously on my gag.   _Yes_ , I wanted to snap at him.   _Peaceful is definitely how I would describe this situation.  I wasn’t thinking that it’s creepy or perverted.  Not at all_.  Especially now that I’d confirmed I was naked.  Well, mostly anyway.  All I was wearing were a loose pair of boxers, which was not much cover under the best of circumstances.  Cheverill wasn’t much better, in only the faded pair of sleep pants he’d dragged on the night before.  

He must have sensed the disgust broadcasting off of me in waves.  He huffed out a breathy laugh and smoothed one hand down my rigid back, tapping each vertebrae with a fingertip as he came upon them.  “You have no idea how adorable it is when you act so acrimonious like this,” he murmured, amused.  “It’s exceedingly precious.”

I wondered how adorable he’d think it would be if I yanked a knife out from between the sheets and sawed off his balls.  

“You know, I believe that I enjoy awakening in this manner,” Cheverill murmured into my hair.  “We shall have to do it more often.”

And _Jesus Christ_.  Cheverill was here.  And it was morning.  And I might have had a heart attack then and there because this was _not how things were supposed to go_.

Ever since my arrival here, just about a week ago, a semi-bearable routine had been established.  Cheverill was always gone when I woke up- off spitting on orphans or whatever he did for a living, and only returned when the sun had sunk halfway below the horizon.  I hadn’t yet found a clock, so my only means of telling the time were the sun, and the deliveries of breakfast and lunch that were brought every day by the rather irritating woman with the mousy hair.  But for the majority of the day, I was left to my own devices.  I usually spent this time either hunting for the transmitter that activated the cuffs (I had found exactly squat so far, not that I’d seriously expected anything else), or doing my best to keep up with Dad’s strict training schedules.  

Trapped in this damn room every day, it was impossible to complete most of the exercises Dean and I used to do together.  Obviously, I wasn’t able to go for a ten mile run.  But I improvised, and converted the bathroom door lintel into a chin up bar and strung the rolled up comforter from the ceiling as a replacement punching bag.  My daily number of push ups and crunches were probably reaching unhealthy levels.  But I didn’t care.  I needed to stay fit for when Dean and Dad finally came to bust me out (because they _were_ coming, any day now).  Besides, having an exercise routine helped to ease the endless monotony and went a long way towards keeping me from going completely stir crazy.

In any case, by the time evening approached, the terror would inevitably start to set in.  I would pace anxiously around the confines of the room, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and nearly jumping out of my skin whenever the wooden floorboards creaked.  When at last, I would hear Cheverill’s unmistakable tread sauntering down the hall outside, it was almost a relief to have the agonizing anticipation come to an end.  Almost.

I hadn’t attacked Cheverill since the Letter Opener Incident.  I thought he even seemed disappointed about it; There was the uneasy feeling that he was waiting for the chance to bring out a whip, or pliers, or some other sick instrument to punish me with.  Not that he actually needed an excuse to do so.  From the time he stepped into the room at twilight, to when he finally dropped off to sleep at night, he devoted to “breaking me in”, like I was some kind of horse.  And he did this in every possible way he could think of.  I dreaded the night.  I dreaded it with the kind of fear I hadn’t felt since I was a child, when the dark was made scary by the imagined monsters lurking in the shadows.  But now was different, because the monster wasn’t hidden any longer.  The monster had a face, and wasn’t afraid to show me how inhuman he really was.

So it is easy to understand, as Cheverill dragged me into a sitting position and propped me against the headboard, that I was having a _slight_ panic attack, because it was morning and Cheverill was _still here_.  This was _not_ the way things were supposed to be!  I was supposed to have until tonight to piece myself back together, supposed to have some time until I was ready to face Cheverill again. _He’ll leave soon_ , I thought to myself, hysteria doing its best to make my throat swell shut. _He_ has _to leave soon_.  I didn’t know what I was going to do if he stayed.

Cheverill noticed my breathing pick up.  He gave me a concerned look and placed a hand on my jaw, thumb stroking along the corner of my gag.  “Samuel?  What’s wrong?”

My fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists.  I was perfectly aware that he knew I couldn’t answer him, even if I had wanted to.

He had taken to gagging me every night before we fell asleep.  He’d started doing it on my third night here, after he’d woken up to find me attempting to chew the control bracelet off his wrist.  All that I’d gotten out of that little escapade were some sore teeth, a lump on the back of my head from Cheverill slamming me angrily against the wall, and the new tradition of Cheverill strapping me into a gag whenever he was ready to call it a night.  It was fairly simple, as gags went.  Cheverill called it a “ball” gag, which I assumed came from the large, rubber ball that sat between my teeth, wedging my mouth open uncomfortably.  A brown leather strap was affixed to either side of the ball, and wrapped around my head to clasp shut in the back.  It made it so that no matter how much I pried at it with my tongue, I couldn’t get it off, and only succeeded in making my cheeks hurt.  I hated the thing.

“Samuel?”  I flicked my eyes over to Cheverill’s face.  A worried expression tugged his lips downwards, and I glanced away quickly, staring with forced fascination at the opposite wall.  I didn’t want to see Cheverill’s fake compassion.  I was sick of him pretending to care.

Cheverill sighed, and scooted over to sit beside me.  “I apologize if I startled you.”  He placed a hand on my thigh and squeezed gently.  I glared mutely at the wall.  “I know you are accustomed to my absences throughout the day,” he continued.  “I wish to acknowledge my deplorable neglect regarding you.  I have not paid you the attention you are due, and I sincerely hope that you accept my regrets towards the matter.”  I rolled my eyes inwardly.  This whole situation would have been so much easier if the guy didn’t talk like he was practicing for a poorly written, sixteenth century English play.  “However, today I aim to change that.”  Cheverill grinned at me.  “Today, I am devoting purely as a day for us to revel in each other’s company.”

A bucket of ice slid into my stomach.  He had to be messing with me.  But then why hadn’t he left for work yet?  I struggled to keep my face blank, to stop the trembling that I could feel starting in my hands.  My mouth was dry around the gag.  I wished I could spit it out.

Cheverill reached behind me, to where my cuffs were clipped together at the small of my back, and laced his fingers with mine.  “You know, it is a very special day for us,” he said.  “It’s our one-week anniversary.”

Oh God, he was _clingy_ on top of everything?  It wasn’t enough that I’d been kidnapped by a closet nutcase, I’d been kidnapped by a closet nutcase with the emotional romanticism of a ninth-grade girl.  What in the world had I done in a past life to piss someone off this badly?

Cheverill must have caught my grimace.  His fingers tightened around mine and he smiled shyly, abashed.  “Ah come, don’t condemn the occasion so hastily.  The first week has always been an important milestone for a new acquisition.  Perhaps I should explain.”  He stroked my hair once, and I shuddered at the excitement leaking into his tone.  “You see, Samuel, for the first week, I restrict our relationship to purely intercourse.  I view it as an introduction period, a chance for me to explore your body without outside influence.  I believe it promotes a stronger bond, to allow me to freely discover your sensitivities.”  

He needed to shut up.  This was like an awkward, more sadistic version of The Talk.

“However, by the commencement of the second week, I deem our relationship mature enough to move beyond these initial phases.  Today, Samuel, is the day I introduce you to the finer points of erotica.  It is high time that we advance your education in this subject.”

I had absolutely zero clue what he was talking about.  Although, if it had to do with “erotica”, the chances that I would enjoy what was coming were falling fast.  

Cheverill laid a kiss on my shoulder.  “I see you still don’t understand today’s significance.  No matter.  You will soon.”  He released his grip on my hand and reached up to fiddle with the strap of my gag.  “It is unfortunate that you make these precautions necessary,” he muttered, almost to himself.  ‘I will remove this if you behave yourself, agreed?”

I eyed him narrowly.  True, I would love to have the gag taken out.  My jaw ached from the stretch, and I had long given up trying to swallow normally.  But I’d found that it had one redeeming quality: Cheverill couldn’t kiss me when I wore it, and trust me, having a pervert’s tongue licking over your own is something to be avoided if at all possible.  There aren’t enough toothbrushes in the world once that’s happened.  Still, I was beyond sick of this damn gag.  I nodded hesitantly.  

Overnight, a clump of my hair had tangled in the clasp, and Cheverill had to carefully pry it out before the bindings could come undone and he carefully pulled the ball out from between my teeth and tossed the thing onto his bedside table.  I swiped my tongue around the inside of my sore mouth, trying to rid it of the taste of rubber.  “Isn’t that better?” Cheverill purred.  “It’s really quite wearing, carrying on a conversation by oneself.”  Pointedly, I pressed my lips together and turned back to the wall.  “Samuel!” he whined playfully, putting on an affected pout.  I glared into the distance and ignored him.

A hand twisted into my hair and wrenched my head to the side.  Cheverill had dropped his teasing attitude.  He scowled at me and cranked my head back painfully.  “You will _behave_ yourself, Samuel,” he snapped.

“No,” I gritted out, squirming in his hold.

Cheverill’s face darkened, but before he could say anything else, someone knocked loudly at the door.  “Mr. Cheverill?” a voice called.

“Come in,” Cheverill answered irritably, less than pleased at the interruption.  The door creaked open, and Carter stepped into the room, his brown hair combed neatly back and a neutral expression on his square features.  His gaze flickered from Cheverill to me and back, taking in my contorted body and Cheverill’s hand buried in my hair.

“Well?” Cheverill barked.  “What is it?”

Carter inclined his head.  “The breakfast you ordered is ready, Sir.”

Cheverill released me and laughed brightly.  “Excellent!” he said.  “Bring it in then.”

I sat upright as Carter stepped aside to allow two women to enter the room.  Between them, they carried a large tray laden with covered dishes.  With difficulty -the tray must have weighed a great deal -they manouvered the tray over to the bed and settled it across the blankets.  Cheverill watched happily as they unfolded legs on each side and balanced the tray across his lap as well as mine, curtsied once, and scurried out the door.

“Mmm, I must order breakfast in bed more often,” he said.  “What a lovely treat.”  He winked at me and I ground my teeth together.  “Of course, after breakfast comes the true-”

He was interrupted by a noisy cough.  We both looked over to find that Carter was still standing self consciously just inside the door.  “What is it?” Cheverill demanded, annoyance souring his words.

“I was only checking that this is a good idea.  You missing work like this at such a busy time…” Carter hedged, like he was regretting mentioning anything yet determined to say his piece.

Cheverill’s scowl was back.  “Carter, I thought it was understood that the matter was settled.”

“But with the deal set to go through, is now really the time to take a day off?”

“Yes, it is,” Cheverill replied warningly.  “I have business to attend to here, and it would behoove you to recall that your position does not include interfering in my affairs.”  He glared at Carter, challenging the other man to question him further.  Icy anger roiled in the air around him, and I shrank away instinctively, knowing Cheverill had the tendency to strike out at those nearest to him when he was riled up.  

Carter had seen me cringe.  The skin around his dark eyes tightened for the briefest of instances, disappearing almost immediately as a neutral expression smoothed over his features.  After a lengthy pause, he bowed.  “I’m sorry, Sir.  I was out of line.”  

Cheverill smiled, satisfied.  “Good.  Now, I suggest you leave Samuel and me to our day off, and get on with the tasks I assigned you.”  The dismissal was clear.  Carter glanced at me one last time before he gave a quick bow and left the room, a glower tugging at the corners of his lips.

As the door closed behind him, Cheverill let out a small, disapproving huff.  “He has been abnormally quarrelsome as of late,” he told me, lifting the lid from one of the many plates crowding the tray.  “I feel he needs a stern reminder in proper etiquette… Ah! doesn’t this smell delectable!”  He sniffed greedily at the plate of sausages and despite myself, my stomach gurgled loudly.  

Cheverill snickered.  “Hungry?”  I blushed and didn’t answer.  “Are you giving me the silent treatment, Samuel?” he asked cheerily.

“Fuck off,” I grumbled.  A short blast from the cuffs left me doubled over and gasping, muscles quivering from the sudden shock.

“I am growing extremely tired of hearing this coarseness from you,” Cheverill said mildly.  He dropped his bracelet and continued to remove the lids from various dishes.  “I have given you ample time to adjust to my expectations, and it is time for you to begin adhering to them.  I will no longer tolerate these vulgarities.  It’s indecent.”  Delicately, he speared a strawberry with a fork and popped it into his mouth.

I caught my breath and straightened up, shaking slightly.  “You don’t like me swearing,” I said slowly, “because you think it’s indecent.  And vulgar.  And nothing sounds ironic about that to you.”  A second bolt of electricity drove through me, stiffening my spine and tearing an agonized grunt from my throat.  The back of my skull smacked hard against the headboard, sending faint stars dancing across my vision.

“I do not condone mockery any more than expletives,” Cheverill explained calmly once he’d let go of his bracelet.  Fucking trigger happy bastard.  I bit my tongue and leaned back against the headboard, imagining that I was somewhere, anywhere else.  “Sulking does not become you, Samuel,” Cheverill observed.  “You are too mature for childish displays.  Sit up and have breakfast with me.”

“How do you expect me to do that when I can’t use my _fucking hands_ , you son of a-”  I cut off with a yelp as the cuffs gave a sharp jolt.  “Would you _stop doing that?_ ” I snarled after a moment, frustrated and pissed as Cheverill methodically cut up a piece of sausage.  He chewed unhurriedly before peering over at me with exaggerated patience.

“I would think it obvious that you are not ready be given such freedoms, Samuel.”  He pressed the tip of a finger into the joint where my shoulder met my chest, and I bit my lip to stifle a whimper as pain flared along the socket.

After the Letter Opener Incident and Cheverill’s little dislocating fiesta on the second day, he had taken to clipping my wrists together behind my back the moment he returned every evening.  Twisted into these unnatural angles, my swollen and bruised shoulders had next to no mobility, and attempting to move them always resulted with the damaged nerves shrieking at me to stop before they tore in two, and the vague suspicion that I was going need a bin to throw up into.  Cheverill knew this, of course, and made sure to jostle my arms at every possible opportunity.

At last, Cheverill removed his hand and picked up his fork to stab a thick slice of sausage.  He brought it to his lips and I got a whiff of rich, spicy meat.  My mouth watered because fuck, I was starving.  I hadn’t eaten properly since yesterday at lunch, and I wasn’t sure that one counted; I’d thrown up most of it later, after Cheverill had brought out his damn ring gag again and shoved me to my knees.  At least he hadn’t dislocated my shoulders that time.  My stomach rumbled once more.

I took a tremulous breath and did my best to keep the resentment out of my voice.  “Well, I can’t eat without my hands, can I?  So could you unlock them?”  Cheverill raised his eyebrow, waiting.  I clenched my teeth and told my pride to shut the hell up.  “Please?”

Cheverill smiled widely.  “If you were esurient, Samuel, you needed only to ask.”  He poured out a measure of orange juice, golden liquid catching the morning light from the windows and sparkling as it filled the glass.  Then he raised the glass to my lips and held it there insistently.   _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me_ , I thought, pressing my lips together.  I wasn’t so hungry that I would willingly submit to being hand fed like a dog.

“Must you be so bellicose always?” Cheverill coaxed, nudging the glass against my lips.  “Is it so difficult to allow me to tend to you?”

“Buddy, you have got a seriously skewed definition of what tending to someone means,” I mumbled.

Cheverill set the glass down with a clink and exhaled sadly.  “I do wish you refrained from driving me to these extreme methods Samuel,” he said.  A wooden box was set in the upper left corner of the tray, and he lifted this box into his lap and thumbed open the latch.  “It has been some time since I have required the use of this,” he confided as he drew out a clear, plastic funnel.  A bad feeling began to build in my chest as I watched him replace the box on the tray and turn back to me, funnel in hand.

“Since you refuse to cooperate and dine with me politely, I’m going to provide you some incentive for why you should mind your manners.”  His free hand snaked up to my jaw and pressed mercilessly on the pressure points behind it until my mouth was forced to open.  Before I could react, he had jammed the funnel as far down my throat as he could manage, scooped up the glass of juice, and tipped about half of it into the funnel’s mouth.

I flailed and choked as the juice splashed over my tongue, hitting my windpipe and making me gag.  I drank frantically, inhaling as much as I swallowed, and it was only when I’d emptied the funnel completely that Cheverill took it out from between my teeth.  Immediately, I hunched over into a coughing fit.  Cheverill slid a cloth napkin smoothly into my lap as I hacked up what felt like an entire lung’s worth of juice, my throat and chest on fire.

When I was done, Cheverill patted my back sympathetically and gingerly tucked the orange spotted napkin into a corner of the tray.  “Now, are you prepared to do this civilly?” he asked, wiping the tips of his fingers clean on a fresh napkin.

“You’re fucking insane!”  My shoulders grated excruciatingly as I forced myself upright and attempted to scramble away from him.  “Stay the hell away from me!”  

“Samuel, we have discussed using profanity.”  Cheverill’s eyebrows were furrowed.  Electricity ripped through the cuffs, stopping me cold at the end of the mattress.  I collapsed onto the pillows, trembling, and an arm wrapped around my back and levered me up against the headboard.  “It seems that you are not yet ready to eat in a more humane manner.  We shall give it another round,” Cheverill’s voice announced.  Fingers pried my lips apart and I realized a moment too late what was happening.  I jerked to the side but the funnel was already braced against my teeth and Cheverill had rammed a forearm across my neck to keep me still.  Whatever amount of orange juice left in the glass was tilted into the funnel and I thrashed feebly as juice filled my mouth.

It was harder to swallow the second time around, but I managed to keep from inhaling most of it, so I decided to count it as a win.  Good thing I have low standards.

“Have you had enough yet?” Cheverill queried.  “I am willing to continue with this method, if you-”

“No.” My voice scraped as it left my battered throat.

“No?”  Cheverill cocked his head, as though he hadn’t quite heard.  Bastard.

“No,” I repeated, my shoulders slumping.  “No more.”

Cheverill didn’t bother to hide his gloating smile.  I closed my eyes as he selected a slice of buttered toast and lifted it up to my lips. _Dad and Dean are coming,_ I told myself.   _They’re coming for me right now.  They’re coming, they’re coming, they’re coming_.  Haltingly, hating every second the fact that Cheverill had reduced me to this, I took a bite from the toast in his hand and chewed it woodenly.

“There, not so atrocious was it?” Cheverill crooned.  He tore off a corner of the toast and proffered it to me.  “See how agreeable it is when you discard your unpleasant truculence?”  I swallowed the second bit of toast, the taste of butter greasy and ashen on my tongue.  In this way, Cheverill fed me another piece of toast, three strips of bacon, and half of a cheese and egg omelet until I couldn’t take it anymore and shifted so that I could slouch against the headboard.  I had flatly refused to drink any more orange juice.

“Are you sated then, Samuel?” Cheverill inquired, and I really wished my hands were free so that I could pin him down and throttle him.  I don’t know why the hell I hesitated with that letter opener.  If someone had slapped a knife into my hand right then, I would have driven it into Cheverill’s neck without a second of hesitation.  I grunted in response to his question and twisted my wrists in the cuffs, feeling the metal rub at the chafed skin underneath.

While Cheverill ate his own breakfast, I moved to gaze out the wide bank of windows on my right.  The watery autumn sun had dispersed the clouds that had lingered since dawn.  The sky was a pale, flyaway blue.  The fiery red and gold leaves clinging to the trees of the forest were fading as winter crept closer.  Already, some had given up and fluttered to the forest floor, creating a jeweled carpet of dying color.  The flowers planted in precise rows were wilted, and a pair of gardeners were steadily making their way along the beds, clipping off the shriveled stems.  A stiff breeze blew across the grounds, plucking at the gardeners’ clothes and tugging loose a flurry of leaves from their branches.  The leaves swirled uncertainly, whirling together across the grass until the wind released them and they floated down to settle in small, crackling piles.

God, I wanted to go outside.  Even just for a minute to feel the breeze and smell the crisp air, sweet with rotting leaves.  I hadn’t been able to unlock another window after Cheverill had rigged the cuffs to trigger if I went into the closet, and he’d made sure his desk drawers were shut tight after the Letter Opener Incident (all objects that could have been even remotely used as a weapon had vanished after my second day as well).  The lack of fresh air bothered me more than it should.  I was used to being outside, walking home from school or just sitting in the sun to read whatever books Dad had ordered me to leaf through.  The air in this room was dead, and before I had been stuck inside for a week straight (longer if you counted however many days Cole and Damien had kept me) I never would’ve thought that the absence of wind would matter so much to me.  It made my heart thump dully, to be so cut off from the world.

Cheverill put down his fork with a clatter, the sudden noise breaking me out of my thoughts.  He perched himself beside me and dabbed primly at his lips with a napkin.  “I know the phrase ‘breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ is cliché, but I find it difficult to top an outstanding feast like this,” he chortled.  I kept my face pointing towards the windows and said nothing.  Maybe if I ignored him he’d leave me alone.  Right.  Solid plan, Winchester.

“You’re not very loquacious today, Samuel.”  I could feel Cheverill’s eyes wandering over me and I hunched my shoulders defensively.  “Too eager for our activities to initiate?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He shocked me, then left me dazed and hazy while he called for someone to come and take the tray away.

 

* * *

 

 

“You cannot fathom the extent of my excitement in this moment, Samuel.  I have been anticipating today for quite some time.  I simply cannot wait to see how you’ll look once- well, we’ll get to that.”

And if I claimed that those words didn’t send a thrill of nervous fear skittering down my spine, well, I’d be a dirty liar wouldn’t I?

Cheverill was rummaging around feverishly behind the closet door, sporadically calling out to me as he searched for whatever the hell it was that had him so wound up.  Before he’d gone, he’d given me just enough of a jolt to stun me while he unchained my hands from behind my back, then laid me out on the bed so he could attach each of my wrists to the posts on either side of the headboard.  So now I was waiting here- my hands _still_ useless, dammit -listening to him prepare God knew what, and thinking that this would be an _excellent_ time for a rugaru to leap into the room, tear Cheverill’s head off, and continue on its merry way.  I would probably be so grateful I wouldn’t even try to waste it.

After another few moments, Cheverill reemerged, a bulky, metal case in his arms.  It was about a foot and a half wide, and a half a foot tall, more like a small trunk than anything else.  He bundled it lovingly over to the foot of the bed and set it down with a hefty thud, the muscles in his chest flexing powerfully.  It was impossible to miss the bulge conspicuously tenting his sleep pants.

“You seem agitated, Samuel,” he noticed.  “I promise, if you relax this will be so much more pleasurable.”  I kicked out at him when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my boxers, more for the show of rebellion than the belief that I could stop him.  He slipped the boxers off of me, and I flushed as I always did, hating how Cheverill’s gaze traced over me.  “Marvellous,” he muttered.  He slithered off the bed and bent over the chest, flipping the lid open and examining its contents thoughtfully.  I craned my neck to see what was inside, but the edge of the bed blocked it from view.  “I believe,” Cheverill said, mostly to himself, “that we shall begin with these, and see where to go from there.”  He pulled out two short lengths of honest to God chains, shackles dangling from each of their ends, and held my legs down while he clicked one onto each of my ankles and attached the other ends to the posts at the corners of the bed frame.

“Have you ever considered seeing a therapist?” I asked him once he’d made sure the chains were as taut as they could be.  “Maybe talk through some daddy abandonment issues, or the fondness for drowning kittens in your free time?”

“I’ll have you know that my relationship with my father was wholly conventional, thank you,” he replied blandly.  Metal clinked on metal as he poked his hand back into the crate.  “And I have never found the drowning of kittens to be particularly- Ah, here we are!”  He flourished a small object into the air.  “This is feasibly my most favored item to enter today with.  No need to preoccupy yourself either, I’ve had it expressly fitted for you.”

“Dude, I don’t even know what the fu- what that thing is.  Or why in the world today’s so special anyway.”

Cheverill frowned at me.  “I’ve already elucidated this for you Samuel.  Today I introduce outside materials into our relationship.”

“Well that makes it _so much fucking clearer_.  Thanks,” I sniped sarcastically.  Cheverill’s frown hardened and his fingers moved automatically towards his bracelet.  The familiar current blasted through me and I screamed, back arching off the bed and the tendons in my arms turning to knotted ropes under my skin as I strained against the chains.  Cheverill kept me locked into this position for a couple seconds, then let me drop back to the sheets, panting and limp. _There has to be some kind of long-term effect, getting shocked so often like this_ , I thought as I struggled to catch my breath, scared at the possibility.

“As I was saying,” Cheverill went on, unconcerned with the fact that I was doing my best to curl in on my aching body.  “Since you so clearly need this delineated to you in much more elementary terms, the purpose of today is to familiarize you with some basic sensual objects that will become customary in our quotidian routine.”

I could almost feel my balls trying to draw up protectively.  “You mean sex toys,” I said faintly.

Cheverill pursed his lips at my choice of words, like he’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon.  High mannered prick.  “At any rate,” he maintained.  “You perceive the significance of this occasion.”  He fluffed out his pompous air anew and held up the object again so that I could inspect it.  “This tool is one of the less complex that I will be showing you today,” he explained.  “It is a type of-” he paused and grimaced.  “Well, you might recognize it as a ‘cock ring.’”  His tone suggested that the crude term physically hurt him as it rolled off his tongue.

Unwillingly, my eyes glued themselves to the strange, burnished object.  It appeared simple enough.  A single, flattened metal band, which was presently separated into two half moons, connected by hinges in the middle.  Divots for the clasp were visible at each end, so that when the halves folded up they clicked together to form the ring.  It was a rich, warm gold, and I refused to consider the possibility that it wasn’t just painted that color.  Cheverill may have had money, but no one should ever make a damn _cock ring_ out of gold just because they could.  I knew the basics of what a cock ring was, mainly from Dean’s lewd description of a bartender he’d spent the night with a few months back.  Apparently, she’d been a bit kinkier than Dean’s usual conquests, but Dean had never been too picky about his women, so it hadn’t bothered him much.  And actually?  I think he’d secretly liked some it.  I’d tried hard not to listen to the details.  But I hadn’t been able to avoid the whole story, and now, thinking back on what Dean had mentioned about his little cock ring experience, I decided I really didn’t want to have one of my own just yet.

Cheverill gave me a moment more to ogle the thing before settling on the bed between my bound legs and taking my flaccid length in his hand.  I jumped at the brush of his cool skin against mine and reflexively tried to jerk my hips away.  Oh God, I couldn’t do this again. _Please, please_ , please, _don’t make me do this again!_ I bit my lip to stifle a sob.   _Dean’s coming.  He’s coming for me._

“Pay attention now,” Cheverill reminded me.  “This is for your education as well as my divertissement, Samuel.”  He reached down to grab a bottle of lube and snapped the cap open briskly.  Excluding the day that I got here, he had always made sure to use the stuff in whatever we did, something for which I was unspeakably thankful.  Nothing could have prepared me for the white-hot agony of him entering me dry that first night.  I’d done my best to forget the horrible pain, and he’d apologized sweetly for it numerous times since then, but his excuses, that I was just too much for him to resist, that he couldn’t make himself wait another second to take me, somehow failed to put me in an especially forgiving mood.

The bed dipped as Cheverill readjusted himself and tenderly pumped his hand over my dick.  “The problem with the ring” he complained, “is that you cannot put it to use without being aroused first.”  He jacked me off carelessly, not even lingering over it as he was inclined to do, and the cuffs chafed my ankles raw as I fought the chains keeping my legs spread wide.  Without my consent, my cock hardened quickly.  

When I was at half-mast, Cheverill stopped.  He picked up the lube and dribbled a dab of it over his fingers, then thoroughly coated the ring as well.  “The first instance that you wear this may be unsettling,” he informed me.  “I am aware that you are unaccustomed to the effects of using a ring, but you will adjust.”  I tensed as he placed the golden band at my base and snapped the two halves shut around me, the metal sparkling brilliantly.  It was tight, but not uncomfortably so.  I let my breath hiss out from between my teeth as he took his hands away, cringing at the feel of the cold metal and the strange pressure it caused.

“That’s my good boy, Samuel,” he purred.

“Go to hell,” I snarled, yanking futilely at my restraints.

“Language,” he scolded back, forsaking his bracelet in favor of taking me in his grip and flicking a nimble thumb across my slit.  I gasped at the unexpected touch.  Sensations shot up to my groin and I groaned as Cheverill squirted more lube into his palm and gave me a strong pull.  “Always so receptive Samuel,” he murmured adoringly.  I turned my face into the pillow, swallowing against the shame coating my throat with a bitter taste.  I could feel myself thickening as Cheverill squeezed me gently, every reaction compounded by the metal ring sheathing the base of my dick.

“Stop,” I ground out, teeth gritted.

“Ah, but you’re ravishing like this!” Cheverill exclaimed.  “And you seem to be enjoying yourself well enough.”  He lightly scratched a nail across my now weeping tip.  Pleasure raced through me and I was bucking up into his hand before I even realized what I was doing.

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” I husked, giving the chains another tug.  I was fully hard now and concentrating everything I had on resisting the urge to thrust into Cheverill’s expert touch.  He gave me a soft stroke in answer.  I forced my eyes shut, fighting to keep my shallow breaths from stuttering as pleasure throbbed through me.  I was only halfway successful, and I could sense Cheverill’s glee every time I failed to hold back a moan.   _Dean’s on his way_ , I chanted to myself, over and over again.  It didn’t matter that he hadn’t come yet, that if it was possible to find me he and Dad would’ve already smashed through the door and shot Cheverill right between his smarmy blue eyes.   _He’s on his way right now._

Cheverill took his hand away (I did _not_ whimper at the loss, a feat for which I was proud) and peered down at me, rock hard and swollen, metal glinting unobtrusively against my skin.  “Wonderful!  I feel confident in saying that we are ready to move on to more refined tools.”  He smeared a drop of precum down my length, catching my eye at the same time and smirking.  “Rings are all well and good, but they are juvenile really.  We must start with them yes, but only because they are necessary for what comes later.”

He stepped off of the bed, wiping his fingers unceremoniously on the sheets as he leaned back over the chest.  “This next one however, is one of my favorites.  Most likely, you will disagree initially.  But don’t let it worry you.”  He straightened, cradling a slim wooden case.  “You’ll learn to appreciate it just as much as I do.”

“Y’know, somehow I doubt that,” I managed weakly.

Cheverill tutted at me disapprovingly.  “A negative outlook will get you nowhere, Samuel.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine why I might be feeling so pessimistic.”

Cheverill laughed and patted my leg fondly.  The lid of the case opened with a click and he lifted out what appeared to be a long, silver needle, blunt at one end and rounding into a tiny ball at the other.  The metal glittered in the warm daylight pouring in from the windows.

“This is known as a sound,” Cheverill said, pinching the balled end between two fingers.  “They are extremely undervalued, in my opinion.  I can’t wait to see how it will look on you.”

I gulped, watching in fearful fascination as he rubbed lube liberally across the length of the metal.  Dean had never mentioned sounds after his dominatrix bartender experience.  I really did not want to find out the use of them for myself, but as usual it didn’t seem like I was getting much of a choice.

“It is in your interest to remain as still as you can for this step,” he warned me.  “It would be... unpleasant if you caused me to slip and puncture your urethral wall.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up, my _urethral what?!_ ”

“Don’t move now.”  He placed the blunt tip of the sound against my slit.

“Hey, no, stop!  What are you-?”  The tip disappeared inside me and I cut off with a shocked yell.  It was, without a doubt, the weirdest thing I had ever felt.  It wasn’t exactly painful, not at first.  But as the sound slid another half-inch into my dick, the discomfort morphed into a slow, unbearable burn.

“ _Stop!_ ” I shouted desperately.

“Shh, shh, almost there.”  Cheverill carefully pressed the sound in further.  The burning spread and I cried out, wrenching at the cuffs around my wrists and ankles.  “Stay still!” Cheverill ordered sharply.  The burning grew and grew, until the pad of his thumb tickled my sensitive tip and the sound was seated entirely within me, only the rounded ball remaining outside, flush against my slit.  “All done, all done,” Cheverill soothed as I shuddered, trying to adjust to the fullness, the wrongness of metal stretching me from the _inside_.  It was utterly violating, with something burrowed so casually into my dick as if it had every right to be there.

My tongue fumbled for words.  “Take it out,” I rasped.  “Please.”

“Ah, but you wear it so fetchingly, Samuel.”  Delicately, Cheverill took the ball between thumb and index finger and twirled it.

Whatever I had said before, I had been _dead_ wrong; this was the strangest, most alien mixture of pleasure-pain-weird I had _ever_ felt.  My control slipped.  I shrieked, arching up blindly at the sensations that exploded through me.  Somewhere above my head, Cheverill chuckled quietly and spun the sound a second time.  My dick throbbed urgently, held in check by the ring.

“Mmm, you like that, I see.”  Cheverill’s other hand closed around my shaft and he moved it gradually up and down, teasing me.  “How long do you think you could stand this before it became too much?” he mused out loud.  I choked out a groan and thrust into his grip, hoping he’d catch the hint and pick up the pace already.  “Not yet Samuel, not yet,” he told me, putting a steadying hand on my hip.  “Coming is a privilege, as you very well know.  Do you think you deserve to come?”

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood and nodded furiously.  My dick was aching from being kept on the edge for so long, clouding my thoughts and stunting my pride.

“No, no, you need to do better than that.”  Cheverill dropped lower and rolled my balls between his fingers, trails of flame following his touch.  His voice hardened, a vein of steel injected into the cooing tone.  “I want to hear you beg, Samuel.  You can do that for me, can’t you?”

I shook my head mutely.  No, begging was bad.  I shouldn’t do it, even if I couldn’t remember why just then.  Dad wouldn’t like it one bit if he knew I’d begged for anything.  I couldn’t disappoint him here; I disappointed him enough on hunts as it was.  “I won’ do it,” I slurred.  Cheverill’s eyebrows slanted downwards and he gave the sound a deft twist.

“You think you can defy me indefinitely?” he demanded.  “You believe you're strong enough for that?”  His voice hushed conspiratorially.  “If so, you’re sorely mistaken.  I know you, Samuel, and you’re weak.  Endeavor to hide it all you like, behind your bravado and your insolent comments, but I can see it in your pretty, pretty eyes.”

I met his gaze, dark blue on uncertain hazel.  Wrong, he was _wrong_.  I wasn’t weak.  He was lying to me, always lying-

A curt knock at the door shattered the wordless power struggle between us.  Cheverill whipped his head around to glare at the door, practically growling at the interruption.  “What?” he spat loudly.

He appeared as surprised as I felt when the door opened to reveal Carter standing on the threshold.  Then Cheverill’s eyes bulged and he swung himself off of me and stalked over to the other man, teeth bared.  It was probably only the fact that Carter was a good three inches taller and twenty five pounds heavier that stopped Cheverill from strangling him then and there.  “I ordered for this room to be _left alone_ ,” Cheverill hissed, spittle flying.  “Are you so dimwitted that even that simple command escapes you?”

“Sir, I’m sorry but-”

“But _what?!_ ” Cheverill roared into his face.  “What could _conceivably_ be so important that you maladroit oafs could not handle it yourselves?!”

To Carter’s credit, he stood his ground.  He didn’t even flinch as Cheverill bellowed at him, merely raised his arm to dry his face on his sleeve, expression calm.  He waited until Cheverill stepped back, slightly out of breath from his rant, the cleared his throat.

“The deal fell through,” he said steadily.  “Sandover changed his mind last minute, realized he was getting shortchanged.  He’s asking for a renegotiation of the terms.”

Cheverill froze in his tracks.  The fury apparent in every line of his body drained away, replaced by a sort of cold, calculating wariness.  “What is he squalling for this time?”

“He no longer thinks that giving you seventy percent of all profits is such a fair plan after all.”

Cheverill ran a hand distractedly through his dark hair and cast a brief glance towards me, his frustration clear.  Carter turned to regard me as well, and met my eyes impassively.  I imagined how I must look, spread out like a slut across the bed, strands of sweaty hair plastered to my forehead and my cock still leaking around the metal ball at the tip.  I wrenched my gaze away from Carter, fighting down the blush that wanted to rise to my cheeks.

At length, Cheverill gave a clipped nod.  “Very well,” he said reluctantly.  “It seems I must deal with Sandover personally.”  He tapped a long finger against his chin.  “I’m afraid we will need to put our time on hold for the moment, Samuel,” he sighed.  He crossed to the bed and leaned down to kiss me, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth as I tossed my head from side to side, trying to dislodge him.

Carter coughed awkwardly.  “Sir, we really should go,” he ventured.

“In a minute.” Cheverill waved him off vaguely.  “I need to ensure that Samuel remains entertained while I’m away.  I’d hate for him to forget the lesson we’re working on.”

For the first time, Carter’s unconcerned demeanor faltered, and his lips thinned angrily.  But he kept quiet as Cheverill plucked a thick, stubby plastic rod from his damn crate.  “I’m certain you’ll be familiar with this,” he said to me, uncapping the lube and applying it liberally over the object’s shiny black surface.  “It is commonly called a vibrator, and it’s going to keep you nice and aroused for when I return.”  He covered two of his fingers in lube and reached down to press first one, then the other up inside of me, pushing at my furled hole until he breached the ring of muscles.

I yelped at the abrupt intrusion, and wished with all my might that Carter would stop watching so closely as Cheverill spread the lube around and in my hole.  When he was sure I was prepped, Cheverill drew his hand out with a wet, slick noise that made me redden furiously.  It sounded obscene, whorish.

“I am sorry for leaving you here,” Cheverill apologised.  “It is crass of me, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”  He positioned the tip of the vibrator over my slippery hole and firmly began forcing it inside of me.

“Ah,” I gasped.  I wasn’t used to this.  The plastic felt odd, hard and unforgiving on my nerves and I clenched my muscles instinctively.

“Relax, Samuel,” Cheverill commanded.  “Now is not the time for your recalcitrance.”  He shoved the vibrator forward another inch.

“Stop!” I cried, struggling to twist my hips away from him.  From the corner of my eye, I saw Carter give a small start, mouth opening as if to protest.  But then his jaw tightened and he tucked his hands into his pockets, nostrils flared.

Cheverill wriggled the vibrator until he was satisfied it was deep enough inside of me that I wouldn’t be able to push it out on my own.  “Almost done,” he promised.  There was a click as he pressed a button at the base, and I let out a humiliating squeak as the vibrator buzzed to life.

“Wha- take it out!” I wheezed, squirming as my dick pulsed painfully.  I scraped it clumsily against the mattress, but it was lodged unyieldingly in my ass.

“Just allow me to make a few adjustments…”  Cheverill tweaked the handle to the side, and the tip shifted, brushing a spot that had stars bursting behind my eyes.  I groaned lowly.  “Almost there.  Just a little bit…” Cheverill muttered.  The vibrator angled again so that it rested directly over that spot, rubbing against it over and over until I was sobbing, almost writhing as the ring prevented me from tipping over the edge.

“Excellent.”  Someone patted my cheek.  I couldn’t focus through the paralyzing need to see who it was.  “I will be ready just as soon as I change into more professional attire.”  There was the rustling of a clothes hanger being lifted off of its rack.

“Sir, should you really leave him like that?  It might not be safe.  You don’t know you long it could take to come to an agreement with Sandover.”

“Carter, once more you are overstepping your bounds.”

“...Of course Sir.  It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.  Back to business, did Sandover reveal his exact reasonings for rejecting-”

A door slammed shut.  I lay on my back, twisting uselessly at the shackles around my wrists and ankles, pain building within me as the vibrator pounded at me relentlessly.  The world faded away, narrowed down to sensations that drowned me, smothered me beneath them.  All I could do was lie there, clinging stubbornly to once sentence that repeated in an endless loop through me head.

_ Dean’s coming.  Dean’s coming.  Dean’s coming.  Dean’s coming. _


	14. Chapter 13 Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues directly from where the last chapter left off, so again, extra warnings for non-con and emotional manipulation. I do seem to be living up to the hurt of the hurt/comfort...

 

Blood slicked my wrists.  It ran down my arms in crimson streams, staining the crisp sheets beneath with blotches of scarlet.  It was hypnotizing, really.  Even as I watched, a droplet fattened along the rim of my right cuff, trembling almost imperceptibly with the flutter of my pulse.  Eventually, its swollen weight became too much.  It detached from the cuff, and made its lethargic way down my forearm, where the skin was tacky with congealed and drying trails.  The droplet picked up speed as it neared my elbow, where the slope was steep enough for gravity to kick in.  The droplet rolled its engorged body across the sensitive nerves clustered in my inner elbow, tickling, until it swept down the curve of my bicep and tumbled onto to white sheet below.  Where it landed, thick, sanguine ruby bloomed, dark and beautiful.  

The numbness gradually spreading through me was probably bad.  There had been pain at first, agony as the vibrator rubbed against me.  I’d fought and thrashed, trying with all my strength to push it out, but every movement I made only seemed to press it against that wonderful, loathsome place inside me that had delicious pleasure setting off fireworks through my bones.  It was too much for me to take.  Maybe I’d just finally succeeded in shutting myself off, and blocking out the pain that was all Cheverill allowed me to feel.

Another droplet escaped from underneath my left cuff.  My unfocused gaze drifted away from its unhurried journey across my wrist, up and up, until I was staring at the distant ceiling, yellow sunlight painted over its smooth surface in slanted rectangles.  How long had I been here?  How long since Carter had ushered Cheverill out that door?  How much longer until Cheverill would return?  Damn Carter for taking him away, for leaving me to this unending torture.  Damn him for his pitying looks and his passive sympathy.

A muffled sound came from somewhere to my right, loud in the silence of the room.  Lazily, I lolled my head to glance over, and saw that a bird had lighted upon an upper sill on the outside of the bank of windows.  A sparrow maybe.  It tucked its small body tight against the glass, fluffing its feathers to stave off the late autumn chill. Curiously, it tilted its head and tapped its beak twice upon the pane, searching for a way in.  What an idiot.  Who’d want to find the entrance to somewhere like this?   _Go away_ , I told it silently. _There’s no place for you here, in this hell.  Fly away.  Fly away like I wish I could._

One beady eye fixed on me, held me pinned there for several long moments.  Then the bird spread its wings, brown and flecked with white, and the sun shone through each feather and turned them translucent.  The white was pure and bright, the brown soft and earthy, every vane outlined in its own radiance.  My breath caught.

A breeze rushed past the windows, and the bird was gone.

Resentment tore through my chest.  I screamed out a sob, wood creaking and metal tinkling as I wrenched at my chains, my reason gone.  Why should he have wings and I a cage?  Why should he have the freedom of the open sky, while I was trapped here, an unwilling plaything to be used and discarded on a whim?  I yanked again at my restraints, and a howl ripped from my throat as my struggles shifted the vibrator shoved up my ass.  Pain blazed through me, the numbness vanishing like smoke shredded on the wind.  I collapsed back onto the mattress, muscles quivering, and held myself as still as possible until the agony had faded to bearable levels.

My eyelids slipped closed.  I was exhausted, sick of the emotional rollercoaster that never seemed to end.  A droplet of blood gathered at the edge of my left cuff and oozed over my wrist.  For a second, I imagined myself, wind whipping through my feathers and ruffling my hair.  I flexed my powerful wings and soared up into the sky, leaving behind all the fear, the horror and disgust that poisoned my soul like an oil slick on water.  The sun caressed my face, brushed warm fingers down my back.  Up here, nothing, not even Cheverill, could touch me.  Up here, I was safe.

But then the blood dripped from my elbow, and I was lying on a bed reeking of sweat and sex, and I had no wings to carry me.  The numbness was crawling back, quiet and menacing as fog, and I welcomed it.  It was the only escape given to me.  My glazed eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, and the only sound that disturbed the air was my breath as it whispered in and out.  In and out.  In and out.

 

* * *

 

 

When the door slammed, the noise it made as it reached me was muted.  I registered the change more through the concussion in the air than an actual sound.  My ears felt as though they had been stuffed with cotton.

“Samuel!” came a voice, distorted, like the speaker was underwater.  “I trust you fared well while I was away?”  Footsteps clacked across the hardwood floor and halted next to me.  The voice tutted.  “I find it highly implausible that you fell asleep, given the predicament I left you in, Samuel.”  The tip of a finger tapped against my hipbone, and a hand stroked a long line from the base of my shaft where the cock ring ended, all the way to where the ball of the sound peeked out from my slit.  My eyes flew open, and I arched off the bed, wailing, as the touch sparked agony through my oversensitized nerves.  “Ah, not asleep then.”

The fingers lifted and I fell back to the sheets, harsh pants forcing their way between my teeth.  I blinked sluggishly to clear the film from my eyes.  A dark form swam into view above me, solidifying into Cheverill’s stormy eyes and thin bladed nose.  He quirked an eyebrow at me.  “Not faring very well then?”

He pushed himself away from the bed and strode across the room, fumbling for the neck of his tie.  I watched him walk away, unable to stop the panic from overtaking me.  What was he waiting for?  Why didn’t he take off the stupid cock ring already!  I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a breathy croak that Cheverill ignored.  The door to the closet crashed into the wall with a bang as Cheverill flung it wide and stomped inside.  Hangers knocked against wood.  Clothes dropped to the floor with a _fwump_ and more hangers clanked.  It was unsettlingly quiet, save for my labored breathing and the hushed scuffling of Cheverill stripping out of his suit.  That is, until Cheverill materialized from the closet, bare chested and pants unbuttoned, seized the delicate vase on his desk, and hurled it to the floor with an enraged bellow.  

I jerked in surprise and fright, flinching as the vase shattered in an explosion of water and glittering shards.  “That fucking little _worm_!” Cheverill shouted.  His fingers twitched as though he was picturing them wrapped around someones neck.  “How dare he back out on me like that?  Does he even know who I am?!”  I shrank away as he approached the bed, his face contorted in fury.  “He’s going to regret this, oh yes.  I’m going to _ruin_ him!”  His feral eyes latched onto me, where I was doing my best to sink out of sight through the mattress.  His teeth bared, and he ducked down until our noses bumped together and I could smell the sour remnants of our breakfast as he exhaled.

“What-” I began, but then his hand was grasping my jaw and he was catching my lips in a bruising kiss.  His tongue crashed against mine, and blood filled my mouth as he bit down hard on my lower lip.  “Stop!” I tried to choke out, but he swallowed my words and smoothed his free hand down my ribs.

“One more sound, Samuel,” he growled into my mouth, “and I promise you I will whip you to the bone.”  He slung a leg across my waist and straddled me, scraping his teeth over the bite mark on my lip.  His thigh ground against my throbbing erection and I keened pathetically into his mouth.  My hips humped the air, desperately seeking enough friction to get myself off.  A string of precome drooled from around the ball of the sound.  

Cheverill broke the kiss and sat up, his bulk settling on top of my ribs.  He exhaled heavily.  His cheeks were flushed from a combination of anger and arousal, and he slid off the side of the bed to pace across the floor, seemingly unconcerned with the slivers of broken glass crunching under his shoes.

“So, Sandover doesn’t think he needs my support, does he?” Cheverill muttered to himself, marching to the windows and back.  It was as though he had already forgotten I was there.  “Foolish, foolish mistake my friend.  If you had only taken the deal, things could have been so much _easier_ …”  He sounded deranged.  It was impossible not to view him like a spoiled toddler throwing a tantrum because he’d had his favorite toy taken away.  A toddler with the resources and ruthlessness of a wealthy businessman.  I didn’t envy Sandover.  God help him once Cheverill had tracked him down.

“...by the time I’m done with him, he won’t even _recognize_ himself!” Cheverill was snarling.  “I’ll have taken _everything_.  His company, his family, his dignity!  And then, when I’ve finished and he’s on his knees _begging_ me-”  Cheverill paused and closed his eyes, a sick smirk on his face as though he could picture the scene he was describing.  “He’ll beg me, finally realizing his mistake, and I’ll shoot him in the head like a dog.”  He nodded to himself.  “Yes, yes, just like that.”  Faster than I could follow, he was beside the bed, cranking my head back by the hair.  He bent low, lips tracing the shell of my ear and whispered, “but you know all about begging, don’t you Samuel?”  He smiled against my skin.  “At least, you will.”  He feathered a kiss in the soft dip behind my ear and stood up.

“I’m not happy, Samuel,” he stated, rather unnecessarily.  If my mind hadn’t been so scattered, I could have voiced one of the dozen sarcastic retorts that were clamoring to be used.  Cheverill chewed on the inside of his cheek, examining me thoughtfully.  “I had planned to wait a bit longer to give you your piercings,” he mused.  “But I believe doing so would cheer me up considerably.  The entire day might as well not go to waste.”

My eyes snapped up to meet his.  “You-no!  You can’t!” I gasped weakly.

Cheverill scowled.  “I did not give you permission to speak, Samuel.  One more complaint and I shall gag you.”  He gave the vibrator a small nudge, bumping it over my prostate and effectively derailing whatever train of thought I was following.  My body trembled with pain and I moaned piteously.  “That’s better,” Cheverill said.  I tried to muster the energy to glower, but he wiggled the vibrator again and the glower was replaced by a whimper.

“There there,” Cheverill soothed.  He took a careful hold on the handle and began gently withdrawing the vibrator from inside me.  He seemed much calmer, now that he could turn his anger towards toying with me.  The vibrator came loose with a pop and I couldn’t help sighing in relief as the maddening buzzing stopped.  Cheverill clicked it off and set it to the side, the black plastic shiny with lube.

“As pretty as you look with this,” he told me tapping a fingernail on the ball of the sound.  “I think I shall have to extricate it for the piercing.  We’ll return to it later, once you have finished healing.  It wouldn’t do for you to become infected.”

“Don’t you _dare_!” I burst out, unable to help myself.  “You stay the fuck away from me!”  My voice cracked hysterically, but no way was I going to let him pierce my _dick_ for God’s sake!  My hips twitched away from him as he reached towards the ball of the sound.

“Samuel,” Cheverill reprimanded me sharply.  “We have discussed your use of profanity, as well as your childish jeremiads.  I warned you of the consequences.”  He snatched up the ball gag from the table and held my head still while he buckled it into place.  “There,” he said once he was done, his words clipped with annoyance.  “Perhaps later we can devote a day teaching you the proper time and place to speak.”  The leather straps of the gag cut roughly into my cheeks as he swung back towards my engorged cock and pinched the sound between his thumb and forefinger.  “Stop!” I tried to yell through the gag, but all that emerged was an unintelligible gurgle.

If I had thought that the sound was bad going in, taking it out was five times worse.  It appeared inch by reluctant inch into the open air.  The metal rasped on the inside of my achingly hard length, and when the dull tip was finally pulled free, I could see that my slit was wide and inflamed.  Revulsion churned in my stomach.

“Perfect!” Cheverill gloated, taking my length in hand and examining the abused tissue.  He wiped the sound clean with a corner of the sheet, replaced it in its wooden case, and placed the case beside the vibrator, out of the way.  Then he returned his attention to my dick and pricked the rim of my slit with a fingernail.  I couldn’t stop the mortifying yelp that came from behind that gag at the invasive touch.  “Yes, yes,” Cheverill grinned.  “You see this dilation, Samuel?  This makes the process exceptionally easier.  Now, you wait there while I organize the necessary apparatuses.”

I mumbled an inaudible protest as he hoisted himself off the bed and padded to his closet- a room I was seriously beginning to hate- and vanished inside.  I threw myself against the chains, cloudy panic banishing every thought from my mind except _gotta get out gotta get out now can’t let him do it gotta get out get out now…!_  From deep down within me, the old Sam, the Sam from before this freakish nightmare, knew that it was the prolonged erection that was scrambling my thoughts.  The pain and pleasure and pure overload of sensations was short-circuiting my brain and setting every nerve to its maximum capacity, so that even the silky sheets felt like razorwire on my skin.  But the Sam of now, the one flung out on a bed with his pupils blown and blood-crusted shackles cinched around his wrists and ankles?  All he knew was that a man was stepping out from the closet, a metal tray gripped between his fingers, and on that tray an array of polished instruments was resting in neat, glittering rows.

Terror froze my heart in my chest.  Muffled grunts escaped through my gag as I yanked on the cuffs, blood dripping steadily down to the speckled sheets.

“Shh, Samuel,” Cheverill hushed as he rounded the bed and set the tray on the bedside table by my head.  Tools rattled maliciously on the tray’s surface.  “Your reaction is unwarranted.  I would appreciate it if you contained yourself and ceased these dramatics.  Surely you are not afraid of a tiny needle?”  From the tray, he lifted a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on, snapping the rubber loudly against his wrists.  “I pride myself on a sterile environment,” he explained, turning back to the tray and tearing open a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.  “It is most unsavory to have a piercing become infected.  The first time I conducted the operation, well…”  He grimaced.  “The boy did not last nearly as long as I had hoped.  But!”- and here he brightened considerably- “I have not made that mistake in a very long time.  I was much more inexperienced then.  I couldn’t even recognize the symptoms of blood poisoning, can you imagine?”  He snorted.

If his little speech was attempting to reassure me, he was doing a piss-poor job.  The longer he went on, the more blood drained from my face at every word.  The urge to pass out was getting stronger by the second.  “Shh, shh,” Cheverill clucked.  He petted my sweaty hair consolingly, brushing damp strands away from my face.  “There’s no need for such agitation,” he said.  “As I have reiterated, I have become quite proficient at this, and I plan on keeping you alive for some time yet.”

Yeah.  Still not reassuring.  

“Now, this will feel a bit cold, so don’t be alarmed.”  Cheverill removed the wipes from their packaging and swabbed one over my right nipple. My skin pebbled at the chill.  “How gorgeous you are going to look when I am done,” Cheverill sighed.  He rolled the nub between his thumb and forefinger, and my hands twitched in the cuffs with the urge to knock him away.  “This is not to say that you aren’t already pulchritudinous,” he continued, checking to see if my nipple was hard.  Satisfied, he selected a pair of forceps from the tray and held them up for inspection.  “But really Samuel, with ornamentation?  You’re going to be irresistible.  Your pigmentation is simply perfect for a couple of gold bars.  And with a chain to connect them…”  He trailed off, eyes dark and a crocodile smile playing across his lips.

I bit down hard on the gag, watching as he shook himself out of whatever fantasy he’d been entertaining himself with.  The forceps winked in the sunlight as he bent over me and clamped the ends tightly over my prepared nipple.  I squeaked at the sudden pinch, squirming as he locked the forceps in place.  

“Lie still, Samuel,” Cheverill ordered absently.  He stroked one latex-covered finger down my stomach before twisting to poke through the instruments on the tray.

My shallow breaths were thundering in my ears. At one point during the last few minutes, my heart had somehow migrated into my throat and lodged there.  Sweat prickled down my neck and back as I stared, horrified, at the forceps distending my dusky nipple.  The tips were rounded into two flat rings where the needle would be pushed through.  Already, the skin squeezed between them was painful and red.

“We don’t want the piercing to be too large,” Cheverill said, his hands hovering undecidedly over the collection of tools.  “Otherwise the piercing may be rejected, and we’d have to repeat the entire procedure.”  He pondered for a moment, then picked up a slim needle and brought it over to me.  “This is a fourteen gage,” he informed me.  He was using his teaching voice again, the condescending tone he adopted whenever he started lecturing.  I really despised that tone.

“A fourteen gage,” Cheverill went on.  “Is the standard size for a nipple piercing.  Later, after it has healed, we may increase the size to a twelve gage, possibly even ten.  But I am getting ahead of myself.”  He smirked, and centered the tip of the needle on the ring of skin held taut by the forceps.

I found my tongue at last.  “ _Stop!_ ” I shouted through the gag, surging upwards off the bed.  I raged and cursed, uncaring that my words were reduced to nothing more than meaningless babble.  In a blur of motion, Cheverill was straddling my waist, pinning me down to the mattress.  One hand came up to cover my lips, pressing the ball further into my mouth until the straps were digging into my cheeks and I was choking around the rubber being slowly shoved down my throat.

“Samuel,” Cheverill said softly.  “I’m going to have to punish you if you cannot behave yourself.”  My only response was to retch as the ball nudged the back of my tongue.  “Nothing to say?” Cheverill asked, raising an eyebrow.  “Please, speak up.  If you have any grievances, now would be the time to express them.”  The straps were so taut across my face that my teeth were stabbing into the inside of my cheeks.  I could barely breath around the gag and tears of frustration and pain were gathering in my eyes.  Cheverill’s weight bore down further, mashing my head back into the pillow.  The lack of oxygen was making the room spin.

And then the hands were gone and I was sucking in great lungfuls of air, my cheeks and jaw aching fiercely.  “No protestations for me then?” Cheverill asked, tilting his head to the side and dismounting from my hips.  The needle was still between his fingers, and he repositioned it over my clamped nipple.  “Well, if you’re certain.”

He drove the needle beneath my skin.

I screamed, any breath I’d gotten back punching out of me as the needle forced its way through my nipple and out the other side.  It felt like a rusty nail had been sliced across the nub, burning heat spreading over my pectoral and into my chest.  My jaw clenched around the rubber gag and a single tear crept down my temple towards my hair.

“Ah, would you look at that!” Cheverill exclaimed, metal clicking as he unlocked the forceps.  Something tugged at my nipple and my gaze scuttled unwillingly back to my chest, where he was carefully inserting a straight, golden barbell into the needle’s hollow shaft.  He slipped the needle out, leaving just the barbell, and capped the jewelry with two small balls screwed on to each end.  “Stunning,” Cheverill purred.  “Exactly as I predicted it would be.”

For a minute, we both absorbed the sight of my puffy nipple and the metal spearing it.  As I inhaled and exhaled, the barbell shifted under my skin, scraping the overworked nerves.  I thought I might throw up.

“Well!”  Cheverill clapped his hands enthusiastically, breaking my stunned stupor.  “On to the next one then.  Shall we?”  A wet chill enveloped my left nipple as he cleaned it with another antibacterial wipe.  Then he was fastening the forceps over it and oh God, oh God it was happening again.   _Nonononono, please stop, please_ please _no_.  I tossed my head back and forth across the pillows, a broken-sounding moan emanating from my throat, like a wounded animal.

“Shh, shh Samuel,” Cheverill cooed.  He combed his fingers twice through my tangled hair, then jammed the second needle under my skin.

When he had repeated the process, and a new barbell was sparkling from my left nipple, Cheverill tossed the forceps to the side and cupped my chin in his hand.  His lips grazed over my cheeks, my mouth, my eyelids.  “You’re such a good boy, Samuel,” he murmured.  “I’m so proud of you.  You handled that wonderfully.”  I closed my eyes, crushing the urge to sob as he lightly kissed his way down the bridge of my nose.  “You’re so beautiful, you have no idea.  You’ve done so well.  Just one more, alright?”  His tone was almost loving, and I hated myself for listening to that honeyed praise, for craving more.

I blinked tiredly at him as he moved back to his tray and skimmed his fingertips over the lines of tools.  The pain in my nipples had tapered off to a low, thumping ache, and I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“For this last piercing, I’m going to need for you to hold very still, Samuel.”  Cheverill had chosen a thin, plastic rod from the tray and was leaning on the bed frame by my waist.  “Once I finish this, I’ll also take the ring off, okay?” he asked.  He cradled my balls in his palm and the agony spiking from my rock-hard dick- that I had managed to stave off until now- came surging forward with a vengeance.  Instinctively, I shrank away from his touch, cringing, a high whine resonating through the gag.

Cheverill’s nails dug warningly into my hip.  “Did I not enunciate myself clearly, Samuel?  Stay _still_.”  He hefted the clear rod and lined it up with my stretched slit.  My eyes widened, and a burst of adrenaline had me yelling out a “wait, no-!” which was lost around the gag as Cheverill pressed the first inch of the plastic into my urethra.

“Much less resistance than the first time,” Cheverill beamed, shushing me as I mewled in discomfort.  “And it does not need to go in nearly as far.”  He slid the rod in an inch more, keeping one hand splayed across my lower stomach to steady me.  His thumb smoothed rhythmic circles over my navel.  “There,” he said after a minute, giving the plastic a final tweak as it settled into place.  He grabbed a wipe from his tray and rubbed it thoroughly over the head of my dick, gentle where the rod protruded.  “This tube,” he told me, giving it a tap.  “Is hollow.  The most manageable method for performing a Prince Albert piercing is to pierce the needle from the outside into a receiving shaft.”

I shook my head frantically, a sob rattling in my chest.  A tear clung to my eyelashes before following the salty path the first had left down my temple.  Cheverill brushed it away with a smile and sauntered back to his tray.  When he turned back to face me, a curved needle was clutched in his fingers.

My vision tunneled, narrowed down to the wicked point.  A pounding was shaking the entire room, like a sudden earthquake had rumbled through the foundations of the house.  I wondered why Cheverill didn’t stumble from the strenght of the tremors, until it dawned on me that the earthquake was not an earthquake at all, just the stampeding of my pulse.

Cheverill stooped between my spread legs, and I was so paralyzed by terror that I could not even try to fight as he fondled my diamond hard length and placed the needle against my heated skin.  The tiny pinprick was enough to send the reality of the situation smashing through the protective daze I had wrapped myself in.  I wasn’t dreaming, as I had been praying for ever since Cheverill had stormed his way through the door.  This was really happening, and my dick was about to be _shish-kebabed_ in the most brutal way possible, and I don’t think I’d ever been more scared in my life, and, and, and seriously, how can _anyone_ be expected to deal with something like that?  I wasn’t Dean.  I wasn’t Dad.  I was just a kid, and I was exhausted and frightened and so blindingly turned on, and _it wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t be strong like them_.

“Puh-hee.”  The word slipped out from behind my gag before I could stop it.

Cheverill paused, and swivelled his head to look at me.  “Pardon?”

I squeezed my eyes shut.  “Puh- _lee_.”

A dazzling grin lit up Cheverill’s face.  “Was that a ‘please’, Samuel?”

I kept my eyes closed.  

“It was!” Cheverill crowed.  “I knew we’d get there!  The appropriate motivation can work wonders, wouldn’t you agree?  That was marvellous, Samuel, truly.  You never fail to enliven my day. ”

The needle stabbed downwards.

I must have blacked out after, because when I next looked around, the plastic had been extracted from my slit and Cheverill was tightening the caps on the new barbell curving out from- I couldn’t process the sight.  It had all happened so fast, and now…  I goggled down at the new jewelry, feeling a scream building in the back of my throat.  How could I have let him do this to me?  He’d _mutilated_ me.

“I am so, so proud of you, Samuel,” Cheverill was saying.  “You have made so much progress today.”  He gave my slit a final cleaning with the wipes, the friction of the cool cloth on my hypersensitive nerves almost too much.  “You’ve been such a good boy for me, and good boys deserve rewards, don’t they?”  The latch of the cock ring sniked open, and his palm had barely wrapped around my base before I was coming so hard that stars flashed in front of me.  I yowled into the gag, my hips jerking uselessly as Cheverill stroked me through the aftershocks and finally, _finally_ , the agony was replaced by the warm, postorgasm glow and I could relax for the first time since Cheverill had fitted the ring around me that morning.

“That feels better now, doesn’t it?” Cheverill crooned.  The surface of the tray clanged loudly as he dropped the ring in amongst his bloodied instruments.  “Permit me to put things back in order, and then I shall come and clean you up.  We can admire your new adornments more fully without all this… untidiness.”  Shallow wrinkles creased his nose as he took in the cooling mess coating my stomach.

I scarcely heard him.  I was too preoccupied with the fact that I had a rod of metal _sticking out of my slit_ to pay attention to anything else.  My guts clenched painfully in horror and nausea, and I had to rip my gaze away from the barbell because I _really_ did not want to throw up with a gag in my mouth and suffocate on my own vomit. _Just breathe,_ I ordered myself. _Don’t think about it.  Just breathe, c’mon_.  I inhaled deeply through my nose, doing my best to box the pain away like Dad had taught me.  And I tried, honestly I did, but thinking of Dad’s lessons led to thoughts of Dad in general, and how in the world would I even be able to look him in the eye again?  The man had little enough respect for me before all this; I couldn’t even imagine how he would react to seeing me now.  I stifled a sob.  What if he never wanted me back?  Dean had always been his favorite anyway, a better fighter, a better hunter, a better son.  And here I was, too weak to fend off one damn guy.

A hot, damp towel rasped over my stomach, cleaning away the sweat and spunk.  I blinked my eyes open, and for the first time I realized that they were brimming with tears.   _No, no, stop right there_ , I snapped at myself.   _The “no more crying like a little bitch” policy has already been established._  But my inner Dean persona didn’t seem to be as commanding right then, because if anything, the film of tears only thickened.

“Almost done, Samuel,” Cheverill promised from somewhere near the foot of the bed.  The towel swiped again, soft and warm on my clammy skin.  Heat soaked down through my muscles, massaging away the knots twisted there.  It felt so good, almost heavenly as Cheverill rubbed it over my thighs and I wanted it to stop because nothing he did was supposed to feel good.  It was all too confusing to think about.

“Nghh,” I mumbled around the gag, too tired to know what I wanted anymore.  My new piercings ached bluntly.

“You have had an exciting day today,” Cheverill said sympathetically.  The towel was taken away, and a second later I felt the shackle unlock from my right ankle.  Cheverill dropped a kiss where the metal had left faint abrasions, and moved to do the same with my other leg.  As soon as he’d released me, I drew my knees up to my chest protectively.  The Prince Albert pressed coolly against my thigh.  A lone tear splashed down the bridge of my nose, and I bit down on the gag, my teeth creaking.  If I started snivelling now, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

Cheverill glanced at my face.  My expression must not have been as composed as I’d hoped, because he clucked soothingly and carded a hand through my hair before unclipping the wires that attached my cuffs to either side of the headboard.  His fingers threaded with mine, but I tugged my hand away and wrapped my arms around my chest.  My eyes were burning and wet.

“Don’t be cross, Samuel,” Cheverill said.  He crawled onto the bed beside me.  Tenderly, he tilted my head to the side and unsnapped the clasp of the gag.  “I realize that I demanded much from you today, but I am so very gratified; you exceeded all of my expectations.”  He cradled my sore jaw in one large palm.

“Don’t touch me...” I muttered through cracked, numb lips.  I made no indication of pulling away.

His other hand came up to my jaw as well, and his broad thumbs kneaded delicately over the strained muscles left by the gag.  Without noticing, I let out a pleased sigh and leaned into the strong pads of his fingers.

“That’s it, let me take care of you,” Cheverill murmured.  Without removing his hands from my jaw, he shifted himself back against the headboard and repositioned my head so that it was settled in his lap.  I curled up on my side, hugging my knees to chest, and rubbed at my eyes with the back of my wrist.  It came away damp.

_No no,_ please _don’t lose it now,_ I thought.   _Not in front of Cheverill._

But why not?  He’d already stripped me of any dignity I had.  What difference were a few tears going to make?  A harsh sob shook my chest.

_Don’t you dare start thinking like that!  Dean and Dad are going to come, and Cheverill’s gonna regret ever being born._

I almost snorted. _Right.  ‘Cause this is the day they’re gonna come busting through that door.  Grow up man._

I thought it without meaning to, too wound up to keep track of where my mind was going.  But then the meaning of what I’d said hit me.  For the past week, I’d been telling myself over and over again that my family was going to save me.  They’d kick down the door, ventilate Cheverill so full of holes that dental records would be the only way to identify him, and we’d all ride off into the sunset in the Impala.  What the hell kind of dream world was I living in?  It tore at me to admit it, but I couldn’t hid behind my denial any longer.  Dad and Dean weren’t coming.

The weight of that disillusionment crashed into me like a baseball bat to the stomach. _They weren’t coming._  I was all alone.  A fat tear leaked out from the corner of my eye.  I couldn’t do this by myself.  I didn’t want to live out the remainder of my life getting screwed six ways from Sunday, waiting every day for the sound of Cheverill’s footsteps on the stairs.  Was that all I had to look forwards to?

The tears came faster, and a sniff jarred in my throat.  I was tired, and scared, and fucking tired of being scared.  And I should be pulling away from Cheverill’s hands on my jaw, but the simple, consoling touch felt so good after days of nothing but bruising kisses and rapacious groping.  Was it so wrong to want a little human compassion?  And if Cheverill was the only one who would give that to me, could I really be blamed for indulging myself?

It was difficult to acknowledge that Cheverill might be the only person to ever touch me again.  And whoever he decided to share me with.  My innards contracted at the possibility,  To be passed around like some kind of _party favor_ -

I missed my family.  I missed waking up to early morning runs with Dean, and watching the sky blush pink with the rising sun while our panting breaths sparkled icy mist in front of us.  I missed the smell of gunpowder and coffee that always greeted me when I got back from school.  I missed Dean’s stupid pranks, and his awful sense of humor.  I missed the rough claps on the shoulder and the teasing punches, with no ulterior motives behind them.  Fuck, I even missed fighting with Dad, because at least he _allowed_ me to argue.  Here, if I ever said something Cheverill didn’t like, it usually ended up with a long jolt of electricity and a gag being forced into my mouth.

The desperate longing for my family was like a jagged chunk carved out of my chest.  But I couldn’t condemn them for not coming.  Cole and Damien were professionals after all;  They’d have disappeared like scuttling rats as soon as I was sold.  Not even Dean and Dad could track people like that.  And that was if they’d bothered to look at all.  Most likely, they figured I’d finally gotten fed up and run out on them.  I hadn’t exactly been subtle about my dislike of hunting over the past few months.  What if they’d gone to talk to my teacher and found out my plans for college?  This whole thing was my own damn fault, both for letting Cole and Damien get the drop on me, and for convincing Dean and Dad that I’d abandoned them.

There were too many emotions racketing around inside me.  Fear, doubt, self-recrimination, resignation, despair, heartbreak- nobody can handle that mental burden, least of all a Winchester, when our encouraged method of coping is going out and shooting stuff until we feel better.  Days of humiliation, of terror and violation, of uncertainty and struggling to stay sane no matter what was thrown at me, in that instant it all came toppling down like a collapsing dam.  What was the point of being strong when there was no one to hold out for?

I’ll never know for how long I cried.  What started as snuffles and single, grudging tears soon devolved into great, wracking sobs and enough water works for a small child to bathe in.  By the end, my throat was raw, and my eyes were swollen and bloodshot.  I felt hollow, like I had been taken apart and then put back together with half the parts missing.

Exhausted, I stared blankly at the opposite wall.  At some point, Cheverill had switched from my jaw to my scalp, and was rhythmically combing his his fingers through my disheveled hair.  With his other hand, Cheverill lovingly dried my face with a corner of the sheets.

A noise was humming low in my ears.  For a moment, I dismissed it as the quiet drumming of my pulse.  But as I payed more attention, I realized that it wasn’t my pulse at all.  It was _Cheverill_ , singing under his breath in a rich, smooth baritone.

_Gave you my heart, gave you my soul,_

_You left me alone here_

_With nothing to hold._

_Yesterday’s gone,_

_Now all I want is a smile_

 

His nails scratched lightly at the base of my scalp.  The melancholy melody vibrated through my bones, and I let my eyelids slide to half-mast as I listened.

 

_First they say they want you,_

_How they really need you,_

_Suddenly you find you’re out there_

_Walking in a storm._

 

It was a bit odd.  Cheverill had never struck me as a Neil Diamond lover.  I’d only ever heard him here and there- Dean had bitched non-stop whenever his songs played on the radio.  Like the last time this song had come on, and we’d been driving down the highway in the Impala.  The first few chords had filled the air and Dean had groaned so dramatically that I’d been halfway convinced he was having a heart attack.  I had raised an eyebrow, and he’d whacked me soundly on the shoulder before reaching over to change the station.

“Only douchebags like music like that Sammy,” he’d grumbled, and ruffled my hair just the way he knew I hated.

Dean’s face swam beneath my eyelids, and my thoughts skidded to a standstill with the noise of a needle screeching off a track of vinyl.  

_What in the everloving fuck was I doing?_

Was I really throwing myself a fucking _pity party_?  It had only been a _week_ , and I was giving up?  Jesus Christ, was my faith in my family really that low?  And instead of pulling myself together, I was lying in my _rapist’s lap_ letting him fawn over me like I was some kind of _fucking pet_?  What the _hell_ was wrong with me!

Before I had consciously decided to, I was jerking away from Cheverill’s groping paws so fast that I nearly gave myself whiplash.  A second later I had toppled over the side of the mattress, landing hard on my hands and knees.  I’d forgotten about the broken vase.  A sliver of glass sliced through my hand, but I scrabbled to my feet and bolted across the room, only stopping when I reached the opposite wall.

“Samuel?” Cheverill called, bemused.  The floorboards creaked as he stood from the bed.  

“Stay away from me!” I shouted.  I pressed my forehead against the wall, trembling.  Blood trickled down my fingers from the gash on my palm.

Glass crunched under Cheverill’s shoes.  “Samuel, really, this is utterly extraneous.  Compose yourself at once.”

I banged my uninjured fist into the wall.  “How about you go to Hell instead?  You can’t fucking order me around!”

“Samuel-”

“It’s _Sam_ , you self-absorbed prick!  Sam!  And I don’t care what you do, this Samuel you’re trying to turn me into?  It isn’t gonna happen!  I’m not your fucking plaything!”

Cheverill’s voice was wintery cold.  “You will address me with respect, Samuel-”

My vision went crimson.  I don’t know when I decided to do it, and if I’d had any capabilities of rational thought in that moment, I would have been swearing at myself for doing something so suicidally idiotic.  But next thing I knew, I’d pivoted around and delivered a right hook straight to Cheverill’s glaring face.

The force of the blow laid him out flat on his back.  He gaped up at the ceiling, a smear of blood across his cheek (it ended up to be mine- I’d punched him with my wounded hand), and looking positively dumbstruck.  

God _damn_ it felt good.  That is, up until the point that the cuffs crackled white-hot, and I crumpled to the ground, my limbs spasming uncontrollably.  

For some reason- maybe Cheverill could alter the voltage or wattage or whatever- this time was worse than the shocks I’d received before.  Every single muscle in my body contracted, my back arched, my heels drummed against the floor, and I couldn’t even cry out like I wanted to because my lungs had frozen mid-inhale.  It felt like my veins were going to melt under my skin.  Seconds passed, and my eyes rolled back in their sockets.  My brain was begging for oxygen, but I still couldn’t breath.  I needed to breathe!

The current spluttered and fizzled to a stop.  The air expelled from my chest in a gust, and I barely avoided swallowing my own tongue as I inhaled greedily, once, twice.  I was going for my third when the sole of Cheverill’s shoe stomped down between my shoulder blades, driving the wind out of me all over again.

“You ungrateful little cunt!” Cheverill snarled.  “This is how you repay me for everything I’ve done for you?”

“Th-the fuck h-h-have you done f-for m-m-me?” I said, my lips clumsy with the remnants of electricity.  I started to lever myself onto all-fours, when Cheverill’s heel smashed into the middle of my spine and slammed me back to the floor.

“How is it Samuel, that after all this time you still haven’t learned your place?” he asked, the venom in his voice practically searing my skin.  “I feed you, shelter you, provide my protection and love, and yet you continue to antagonize me.  You should be grovelling at my feet for showing you such benevolence!”  He lifted his foot and stomped down on my back once more.  His weight bore down between my shoulders, and I gasped in pain as the crushed glass stuck to the sole of his shoe was ground slowly into my skin.

“Perhaps I have been too lenient with you, hmm?” Cheverill demanded.  “Is that it?  What will impress upon you the actuality that you are mine?  When will you comprehend that this “Sam” you cling to so tenaciously is _dead_?  Because I’ve killed him, Samuel!”

I twisted my head to the side as far as I could and glared at Cheverill out of the corner of my eye.  “Fuck you!” I spat.  “All I’m hearing is the sound of your own ego, Jackass.  You think I’ll roll over for you just like that?  I hate to burst your bubble, but that ain’t never gonna happen!”

Cheverill’s eyes almost bugged out of their sockets.  He looked completely unhinged, his face red, teeth bared, an artery ticking furiously high on his temple.  “That’s what you think?” he roared, spittle showering down on my neck and shoulders.  He stepped off my back, and before I could scramble to my feet, the toe of his shoe connected savagely with my ribcage, throwing me a half a yard or so across the floor.  Pain exploded through my chest.  I clenched my teeth against the whimpers that welled in my throat and hunched into a ball.  It was difficult to breath properly, and from the feel of it, at least one of my ribs had been broken.   _This is it_ , I thought.   _He’s finally going to kill me._

But the kicks that I expected never came.  Instead, footsteps clomped across the floor, and the closet door was flung open with a bang.  A moment later, I sensed Cheverill crouching down beside me, and then I was being shoved roughly onto my stomach.  The shift jostled my broken rib, and a moan slipped out from between my lips.  Cheverill stood, and his shoe pressed down on the nape of my neck, pinning me in place.

“I think,” Cheverill began in a dark tone, “that I was correct in saying that I have pampered you this past week.”  Something stiff and polished traced over the bottom of my foot.  Reflexively, I tried to pull away, but Cheverill dug his heel into the hollow at the base of my skull, and I stilled immediately.  From this position, it would only take the smallest amount of pressure for Cheverill to snap my neck.  “Your deplorable behavior is partially my fault,” he continued.  “I have given you the false impression that you retain some measure of control over your own life.  This needs to be rectified at once.  You are not a human anymore, Samuel.  You are a pet.  Crawling like one for a few days should be sufficient to teach you this.”

There was a whistling sound, and then something cracked against the sole of my right foot and left a stripe of stinging fire where it had landed.  I let out a shocked yell, and only Cheverill’s weight on my neck prevented me from leaping away.

“Have you ever heard of bastinado, Samuel?” Cheverill said conversationally.  The whistling came again, and a second stripe appeared on my other foot.  “It was quite a popular corporal punishment used in Iran some years back, though its first documented use was in China around the tenth century.  It is mainly employed as a form of torture, during which the victim’s feet are whipped repeatedly with a cane or similar instrument.”  The whistle came for a third time, and I nearly bit through my lip to keep in a scream as it hit.  “The truly wonderful aspect of bastinado,” Cheverill went on,” is that unlike other parts of the body, the soles of the feet never inure themselves to the beating.  In fact, as the whipping progresses, the nerves become increasingly more sensitive.”

The smack of wood impacting with flesh echoed around the room.  With every slash of the cane, pain zinged like lightning through my feet, into my ankles, and up to my calves.

“Of course, I have never had occasion to personally discover whether this claim is legitimate.”

_Buzz… Crack!_ as the cane cleaved through the air.

“So, if you’re conscious when we finish, do let me know if numbness set in at any point.”

_Buzz… Crack!_

I opened my mouth to deliver a retort, but the cane came snapping down and a howl emerged instead.

_Buzz… Crack!_

No, I wouldn’t yell.  Not for him.  I gritted my teeth and dug my nails into the wood floor.  The pain was spreading up into my knees.

_Buzz… Crack!_

_Buzz… Crack!_

_Buzz… Crack!_

Again and again and again, the cane rose and fell.  At thirty two, I was sure that all skin must have been flayed from my feet.  At forty seven, I was whimpering low and steady at the back of my throat.  By eighty one, those whimpers had transformed into full fledged screams.  I lost count at one hundred and six.  The world dissolved into the smack of the cane and the pain of each blow.

Until finally, seconds or minutes or hours later, the swish of the cane ceased.  The pressure of Cheverill’s shoe on my neck vanished.  I lay still, darkness flickering around the corners of my sight, unsure if it was over or if Cheverill was giving his swinging arm a rest.  I prayed that he was.  I didn’t know if I could last another round.  The soles of my feet felt as though they had just been fed through a meat grinder.

“Samuel.”  Cheverill was crouching beside my head.  I flinched back as he reached out, but he only placed his hand under my chin and forced my glassy eyes to meet his.  “I hope you can learn from this experience,” he said.  I cringed again as he set the flogger down between us.  “You know I hate it when you make me punish you like this.”  He straightened up and surveyed me sprawled out in front of him.  The trace of a smile curled his mouth.  Then his face was remorseful once more, and he was turning away from me, combing his fingers through his hair.  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said.  “You’ll have one subsequently, of course, you aren’t fit for the dinner table in that state.  I’m certain they’ll be bringing our meal up quite soon after that, and if you are very, _very_ well behaved company, I’ll even allow you to eat some of it.”

The bathroom door swung shut behind him with a click.  

The room was still.  I hadn’t thought that I had any more tears left inside me, but an irritating prickle was starting behind my eyes.  Which was strange, because my chest wasn’t tight with emotion.  It felt whittled away, empty.  My entire body hurt, the ache radiating out from my feet and diffusing into my legs and torso.  Gingerly, feeling so brittle that I would crumble at any hasty movement, I pushed myself into a sitting position and brought my ankle around so I could examine the sole.  From the tides of pain washing through me, I was expecting long, bloody gashes torn entirely to the bone.  But the only sign of what had happened were several reddened lines on the insides of my arches.  No cuts, no blood.  Nothing.

_Okay, okay, that’s good, I suppose._  It looked like there wouldn’t be any lasting damage, at least.  I inhaled shakily, my broken rib protesting, and levered myself to standing.

It was a really, really, _really_ bad decision.

Agony erupted through my feet, licking like flames over the beaten nerves.  My knees buckled, and I pitched back to the floor, blood filling my mouth as I bit my tongue to muffle a shriek.  I landed on my uninjured side, the impact jarring my broken rib.  My vision swam.  Retching from pain, I rested my forehead on the wood and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Oh God, Cheverill had been right.  There was no way I could walk like this.  I was going to have to, to _crawl_.  Shame coated my mouth with a bitter taste.  How much more of this could I take?  How much more could Cheverill steal from me?

The sun was beginning to set.  The scattered pieces of splintered vase glittered crimson as they caught the dying light.  On all fours, I skirted around the mess of razor glass and made my way towards the sitting area and the bank of windows.  It seemed a lot farther away than when I could have walked to it.

I slumped against the frame of one of the windows, careful to keep the bottoms of my feet pointed towards the ceiling, and cupped my throbbing side with my hands.  It was tender, and pain flashed through my rib when I breathed too deeply.  Definitely broken then, or if not, then severely bruised.  But it could have been worse, I mean, it wasn’t like I’d never broken ribs before.  Nothing to do but let it heal on its own.   And at least my gashed palm had stopped bleeding.  

I leaned my forehead against the cool pane and stared over the wide mansion grounds.  I spent a lot of time doing this nowadays.  Looking out of the window at the sweeping stretch of grass and the miles of surrounding forest, I could imagine that things were back to the way they had been.  Dad had rented a cabin in some remote, backwoods town for whatever hunt he was working on, and soon Dean would haul me off to sharpen the machetes while he made us both dinner.  Dad would come home from questioning witnesses, grumbling as always about meddlesome county sheriffs, and sit down with us on the dusty sofa to watch old spy movies that fuzzed in and out with the crappy reception.

But the daydream never lasted.  Cheverill was always there to drag me mercilessly into reality.  Was it scarcely this morning that I’d woken cuddled in his arms?

The barest curve of sun remained above the horizon.  The sky was pale, the first stars blinking into existence as the last of the color was leached from the clouds.  Shadows teemed under the canopy of the trees.  The wind had settled down, and now the leaves hung limp and dry from the ends of their branches.

I blinked.  At the edge of the forest, just before the line of trees ended, a figure was standing motionless, half-hidden under an overhanging bough.  I squinted against the growing dusk.  It was a boy.  He looked to be about fifteen years old, and his light blond hair was messy and tousled, his arms crossed over his chest.  Though it was difficult to tell from this distance, I thought I could make out sallow skin and pallid, sunken cheeks.  What the hell was a kid doing in the middle of the woods?

Then the kid inclined his head, and I realized that he was _staring straight back at me_.  A shiver rippled through me, like hoarfrost seeping into my blood.  For a moment, we regarded each other.  Then his outline wavered, and his body flickered out like a candle flame being snuffed.

My heart stuttered in my chest.  Not a kid.  A ghost.  And not some random ghost either.  I would’ve bet my life that Cheverill had bought that kid too, however many years ago.  No wonder the guy had become an angry spirit after he died.  I shuddered.  

The sun vanished completely from the horizon.  I huddled against the window, watching as the dark molded the landscape into a black, silent sea.  From behind me, the sound of running water shut off.  And up above, the stars stared down, uncaring.


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the rescue begins! Sorta. But we're coming up on the end now, only a few more chapters left! Thanks to everyone who stuck with me and my magnificently slow updates.

The last time Dean had been in a college town, he remembered distinctly that there had been more sorority girls involved.  Not so this time around.  This time, he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, unconsciously tugging at the tie wrapped in a stranglehold around his neck and wondering whether James Bond ever felt like puking before infiltrating Osato Chemicals.  Dean certainly wouldn’t blame him if he had.  The idea was growing more and more appealing for himself, and the suit he was dressed in wasn’t helping matters; he was sure it wasn’t fooling anyone.  He’d set one foot in that glass-and-steel building across the street, and they’d know immediately that he didn’t belong there.  He was an intruder, a charade that wouldn’t stand up two seconds under scrutiny.  The tie seemed to be constricting every time he swallowed, pressing against his adam’s apple like a garrotte waiting to be pulled taut.

“Are you sure this is a good plan?” he blurted suddenly, turning to John in the driver’s seat.  “I mean, won’t it be obvious what we’re trying to do?  What if they ask me about stock prices or something?  I don’t know anything about stocks!  Jesus, I slept through my finance classes!  I’ll give us away and I’ll have blown our chance to find Sam-”

John’s steady hand on his shoulder made him snap his mouth closed.  He fought down the blush rising in his cheeks.  Okay, yes he was babbling.  Fine.

“Dean.”  John’s voice was a low rumble.  “You need to calm down.”

“But what if-”

“Dean,” John repeated.  He spoke slowly, as if he was coaxing Dean down off a ledge twenty stories up.  “If you don’t think you can do this, tell me now.  Freezing up in there isn’t something we can afford.”  Dean gulped in a breath, nodding.  John plowed on.  “But remember, I wouldn’t have brought you with me if I didn’t think you could handle it.  Sam’s going to need you once we get him out.”

Sam’s name was a trigger.  Dean straightened in his seat and set his jaw.   _This is for Sammy_ , he reminded himself.  “I’m coming sir,” he said determinedly.  “I won’t mess it up.”

John’s lips quirked into the memory of a smile.  “I know you won’t.  Do we need to go over the cover one more time?”

Dean shook his head.  “I’m good.”

“Alright then.”  John squinted out his window, appraising the building like a castle they were about to storm.  “Let’s go get your brother back.”

The twin slams of two Impala doors were lost in the cacophony of late night city life.  Cars streaked past them as they waited for a break in traffic, headlights glaring aggressively into both their faces.  Downtown Marquette was busy for a Thursday; that asshole Julien sure had a weird definition of “little towns”.  Somewhere behind them, ambulance sirens blared madly, echoing off the metal sides of buildings.  The skyline was a black silhouette against the bruised, navy sky.  A gap appeared in the cars and John and Dean hurried across the road, asphalt slapping against the soles of their shoes.  The wail of sirens dissolved into the distance.

A rude gust of artificial-smelling air struck Dean as he stepped into the lobby.  It was just this side of cold to be comfortable, and he had to repress the urge to shiver.  God, he hated places like these.  Receptionist’s desk straight ahead, a bank of elevators to the left, and polished marble covering every conceivable surface.  No way he’d ever end up working in a place like this.  All these stiff, corporate employees with their salads and health drinks and NPR, yeah, no thank you.  These guys probably had mini golfing greens rolled up in their oversized office closets. _It’d take divine intervention to get me stuck here_ , Dean thought, grimacing inwardly.  A nudge to his shoulder got him moving again.  John was heading for the front desk and Dean trailed after him, doing his best to keep the distaste out of his expression.  

At their approach, the man hunkered behind the desk sat up in his chair.  His hands, the skin so translucent Dean could’ve numbered the veins, came up to smooth back his silvering hair.  “Good evening, sirs,” he said politely, flat eyes tracking from John to Dean and back.  “How may I help you this evening?”

John leaned casually against the counter.  “I have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Green,” he said, naming the first of the passwords that Julien had provided.

The man’s gaze sharpened keenly.  “I see,” he began, interlacing his fingers and tapping the tips of his thumbs together.  “Well, Mr. Green is a very busy man.  And this late at night, he won’t take kindly to strangers barging in and interrupting his work.”

“Oh, he’ll want to see us,” John said.  “He’s an old friend of mine, back when we were attending Elysium Academy together.”

“Ah, another classmate!  Mr. Green does enjoy catching up with old friends,” the man replied.  He smiled expectantly at John.  

“As long as no one mentions the stable incident,” John corrected, fists clenching underneath the desk as he laughed along with the man.  Dean prayed that the guy didn’t notice the savage edge creeping into John’s tone.

After a moment, the man flattened out the creases that had appeared on his sleeves and fixed his attention back onto John.  “Very good,” he said.  “I assume only you and your assistant are here to see Mr. Green?”  He examined Dean for the first time since they’d entered, lingering on Dean’s chest.  “He’s dressed very… modestly, if you don’t mind me saying.  None of Mr. Green’s visitors are normally so conservative.”

Dean’s heart thumped painfully.  He _knew_ he shouldn’t have gone with the stupid suit!  Fuck, fuck, he’d blown their cover, fuck.  He stole a glance at John, bracing himself for an angry, disappointed glower.  But John wasn’t looking at him.  He was glaring at the man behind the desk, his hands twitching dangerously at his sides.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he said icily.  “But this is my _business associate_ , not my assistant.  And I’ll thank you for keeping any assumptions to yourself in the future.”

The man flushed darkly, tearing his scrutiny away from Dean’s chest and stammering out an apology.  Dean felt his ears starting to redden.   _Oh.  He meant_ that _kind of assistant._

John was still scowling as the man opened a drawer and hastily dug through it.  “Again, so sorry sir,” he rushed, pulling out a key card and handing it to John.  “I shouldn’t have presumed-”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” John snapped, cutting him off.  “And we’d like to see Mr. Green now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course sir, um, sirs, I…”  John raised an impatient eyebrow, and the man positively quailed.  “Uh, take the farthest elevator to the bottom floor, take your third left, and continue down the hallway until you reach a door.  The keycard unlocks the door, and you’ll find Mr. Green in his office,” he rattled off quickly.

John stared him down for a moment more before turning on his heel and stalking over to the elevators.  Dean trotted along behind him, wisely keeping his mouth shut as John pushed the down button with more force than strictly necessary.  He could sense the receptionist’s frown burning into his back while they waited in awkward silence.

“Dad, calm down,” he said, once the elevator doors had closed behind them.

John grunted once.

“Dad,” Dean tried again, craning his neck to see John’s expression.  Crappy elevator music played insistently through the air between them.

Eventually John faced him, running a weary hand over his forehead.  “I shouldn’t have brought you,” he confessed quietly.  “What I was thinking, bringing a kid into a den of-”

“Hey!” Dean exclaimed hotly.  “I’m twenty Dad, hardly a kid anymore.”

“Dean, if these people are going to think that you’re... uh, mine, then there’s no way I can let you come with me,” John bit out.  “We don’t know what’s going to happen in there.  We can’t be taking unnecessary risks, and these people will tear you apart at the smallest opportunity!”

“Just ‘cause some pervy old guy made a comment doesn’t mean you should be declaring Defcon 3!”  

“I don’t think you understand!  Those people-”

“I understand fine, Dad.”  Dean met his father’s eyes without flinching, injecting every ounce of resolve he had into his words.  “But Sam’s in there, and I’m not going to tuck my tail between my legs and run while he needs my help.  You taught me better than that sir.”

John carded his hand through his hair in frustration.  Dean watched him anxiously, holding his breath and watching John pace around the cramped confines of the elevator.  The tinny music rattled in his ears.  As the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors started to slide open, John spun back to glare at him.  “All right,” he growled lowly.  “All right, you can come.  But-” and here he leveled a warning finger at Dean’s nose- “you stick close to me, got it?  You let me do the talking and just keep your eyes peeled for Sam.  You don’t leave my side, not for anything, and if you see Sam…”  His look pinned Dean in place with its intensity.  Dean had to stop himself from checking if his clothes were smoldering.  “You don’t go haring off half-cocked, you hear me?  You let me know and we figure out a plan together.  I don’t want you drawing any attention to yourself.”

Dean nodded seriously.  “I understand sir.”

John caught the doors before they could close.  “Come on then,” he said, holding them so that Dean could step past him.  They were standing in a narrow, concrete corridor, definitely not the kind of place Dean had expected for a secret club of psychos.  Pipes hung exposed from the ceiling, and bare bulbs protruded in intervals from the walls.

“I would’ve thought they’d have chosen someplace a little nicer than a maintenance hallway,” Dean whispered.  His voice bounced dully in the empty space.  Their footsteps echoed as they began to walk, their shadows thrown distorted across the ground.  Dean allowed his father to take the lead as they passed numerous metal doors set into the walls on either side. _We’re almost there Sammy,_ he thought.   _Just hold on a little longer._

They cut left down a short hallway, where the lighting was weaker and the walls pinched inwards.  At the end was a door painted a dark purple-gray, and a sign drilled to it reading “Danger: High Voltage.  Authorization Required Beyond This Point”.  Beside the door was a black keycard lock.  Its red light blinked steadily in the semi-darkness.  John shot Dean a glance and raised his eyebrow. _Ready?_  Dean gave a single, curt nod, and John pulled the card out of his jacket pocket.  He slid it through the lock, the little light flashed green, and the deadbolt clunked as it disengaged.  John pushed the door open, and a shaft of warm lamplight pierced the gloom.

The first thing Dean noticed as he stepped over the threshold was the overwhelming smell of smoke.  It charged him like a bull, thick and rank, making his eyes water and a sneeze catch in his nose.  With difficulty, he choked it down and hoped like crazy that he’d come out of tonight without stage three lung cancer.  Jesus, and he’d thought the smokers at the smalltown bars were bad.  At least with them he’d never gotten the impression that he’d just walked into a chimney.  As he blinked away tears, more of the room came into focus through the bluish smoke.  The space was larger than he had expected, easily bigger than the lobby above them.  The walls were papered in a dusky gold.  Velvet chairs and footstools were clumped in groups everywhere he looked, and a full length bar had claimed a back corner.  Bottles of scotch, bourbon, and vodka glimmered richly on the shelves behind it.  In the opposite corner sat an old-fashioned record player, busy crooning a slow paced jazz number into the sooty air.  A sparkling chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the numerous crystals encrusted into the frame shimmered brilliantly each time Dean moved his head.  He felt as though he’d just stepped back eighty years in time to a 1920’s speakeasy.

This sensation was broken somewhat by the occupants of the room.  There were maybe eighty in total, and most were lounging on the armchairs and couches, chatting unconcernedly, the mens’ suits sleek and svelte alongside the womens’ prismatic dresses.  The swell of their conversations rippled through the smoke like wind sweeping across a hillside.  But it was the remaining few that made Dean freeze in his tracks.  Among the glitzy, tittering patrons were the ones whom were plainly not there by choice.  They kneeled or sat by the feet of the men and women around them, scantily dressed at most and some wearing nothing at all.  Dean swallowed his nausea as he caught the blank stare of a half-naked girl crouching beside the legs of an older man, his hair feathered white at the temples.  Her eyes were dim, empty as a grown over tombstone.  She showed no reaction to being manhandled into the man’s lap, her expression unchanging as he tucked a hand under her lace bra.  Dean shuddered and tore his gaze away from the sight.  Somehow in his mind, her face had been replaced by Sam’s, and he had to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood before the image would fade. _Keep it together, Dean,_ he snarled to himself.   _You can’t help her now.  Just find Sam.  Don’t fuck it up._

A hand landed on the back of his neck, dragging him out of his own thoughts.  “Do you see him?” John demanded softly.  Dean peeked up at him, then gave the room a thorough once-over.

“No,” he breathed back.  Equal parts agitation and relief began to squeeze around his chest.  On one hand, he didn’t know what he would’ve done seeing Sammy kneeling by one of these armchairs, but if he wasn’t here, where was he?  Were they too late, and he’d left already with the bastard who’d bought him?  What if Julien had lied, and Sammy wasn’t even in Michigan?  They’d be back at square one, and Sam didn’t have time for them to chase down a new lead-!

John’s fingers clamped down hard on his arm.  “Breathe, Dean!” he hissed frantically, and Dean realized belatedly that black dots were swimming through his vision.  Iron bands were clamped around his lungs, making his legs wobble and panic spike through his stomach.  “Dean, calm down!” John barked into his ear.  Dean shuddered as he forced himself to inhale, struggling to rein in his galloping heartbeat.

“Is it his first time being out of the house?” a voice purred suddenly from under his chin.  Dean jerked back, bumping clumsily into John’s chest as he blinked at the woman in front of him.

“What?” he asked stupidly.

The woman pursed her lips and flicked her reddish, curly hair over one shoulder.  “You normally let him speak like this?”  She directed her question at John, sounding unimpressed.  Before he could answer she had thrust her hand out, evidently waiting for him to kiss it.  “I’m Kathleen,” she said as John bemusedly brushed his lips across her knuckles.  She smiled coyly at him.  “You must be new in town.  I would have remembered this one.”  She stroked her fingers deliberately down Dean’s chest.

In a millisecond John was between them, knocking her hand to the side.  “It’s a pleasure, Kathleen,” he said mildly, though Dean could see the rigid lines of tension knotted down his back.  “My name is Elliot, and this is my business partner James.”

“Your… business partner?” Kathleen asked doubtfully.  Then comprehension seemed to dawn and her lips parted in an embarrassed “O”.  “I’m so sorry!” she gasped, blushing furiously.  “Don’t pay any attention to me, I don’t know what I was thinking jumping to conclusions like that.  I’m so sorry James.”  She gave Dean a shy grin.  “Can I start over?  This is mortifying.”  She curtsied gracefully to them both, the hem of her dress sweeping across the floor.  “I’m Kathleen Roberts,” she said.  “And who might you two respectable gentlemen be?”

“Elliot Queen and James Ross, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Roberts,” John repeated, bowing solemnly to her.  Dean inclined his head shortly, already impatient for a hot shower to scrub away the feeling of slime she’d left on his skin.

“Charmed,” Kathleen said, curtsying once more.  “May I invite you to share a drink with me?  It’s not often that we see fresh faces, and I must say that I’m a terribly nosy person at heart.”

“Uh, alright,” John answered warily.  He peered once more around the room before taking Kathleen’s proffered arm and leading her over to the nearest collection of empty armchairs.  Dean lagged behind them, hastily studying the people he passed.  No Sam.  His inspection skipped over a grotesquely obese man bellowing laughter at some unknown joke, over the couple at the bar ordering drinks while a young boy huddled unobtrusively by their feet, but there was no trace of an overlong mop of brown hair.  Butterflies starting making uncoordinated loops through Dean’s stomach.  Where the hell was Sam?

“So, Mr. Queen and Mr. Ross,” Kathleen began, settling herself daintily on a cushioned chair.  “What brings the two of you to Marquette?”

“Well, actually we were hoping to meet someone here,” John said, wasting no time.  He and Dean had perched uncomfortably on the edge of an overstuffed sofa, and John angled himself towards her.

“Really?” Kathleen sounded surprised.  “May I ask who?”

“A Mr. Cheverill.  Have you heard of him?”

Dean’s breath stuttered on the smoky air as Kathleen thinned her lips pensively.  “Y...es,” she replied at last, drawing out the word.  “I know Alexander.  Kind of a stick in the mud.  But why on Earth would you come all the way out here just to meet him?”

“A business proposition,” Dean jumped in.  “We were hoping he might be willing to allow our company the use of some of his land.”

“For oil?”  Kathleen’s eyebrows drew down, a hint of suspicion in her tone.  “Marquette seems an unusual drilling site.”

“No, no,” John asserted, elbowing Dean roughly in the ribs to shut him up.  “Forestry, not oil.  We represent the Ainsworth Lumber Company, which operates primarily north of the Canadian-American border.  We are interested in expanding south into the States, and we wanted to connect with local businessmen to see if that might be possible.”

Kathleen’s expression relaxed into something a bit more friendly.  “I see,” she said.  “Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid Alexander isn’t here tonight.”

“No?” Dean asked weakly.  He couldn’t say he was surprised, but it didn’t help the crippling dismay stuffing itself down his throat.  

Kathleen regarded them sympathetically.  “I am sorry,” she said.  “You boys must not be having a lucky day.  This is the first time Alexander hasn’t made it to the club in months.”

“It’s been an unlucky couple weeks, really,” John agreed.  The grooves carved around his mouth were dark and grim.  He shared a bitter look with Dean then turned back to Kathleen.  “Are you sure he won’t show up later in the evening?”

“Oh I’m sure,” Kathleen said tartly.  “He announced quite clearly to us all that he would not be attending this week.”

“Talking about dear old Alex?”  A man stepped out from the haze of swirling smoke, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.  Uninvited, he threw himself down in the empty seat next to Dean and stretched out his long legs with a sigh.  “And why are we choosing to ruin a lovely conversation on that pretentious bastard?”

“Hello Devon.”  Kathleen appeared none too happy at the impromptu intrusion.  “Mr. Queen here was just asking me if I could introduce him to Alexander.”

“Ah, hello there!”  Devon grinned cheerily over at John.  “Always nice to see some new people around here.  The same group can get awfully boring after awhile, yeah?  Are you here to stay or just passing through?”

“Uh, just passing through,” John replied.

“Sorry, where are my manners?”  Devon reached out to shake John’s hand.  “Terribly rude of me.  I’m Devon Fontana, dashing entrepreneur and illustrious philosopher.  Quite esteemed, you know.”  Behind him, Kathleen shook her head, looking pained.  “And where might you be from, Mr. Queen?  I’ll have to take some time off for a trip there if you can pick up boys as irresistible as this one.”  His smirk widened and he fluttered his eyelashes flirtatiously at Dean.

“Canada,” John said bluntly.  “And this is my _business associate_ , Mr. Ross.”

Devon made a soft noise of surprise.  “I was wondering why you were dressed so fully,” he confessed in a loud whisper to Dean.  “And as we’ve now established that you are, in fact, a free man, may I point out that along with being devastatingly charming, I am also an eligible bachelor.”

Dean spluttered soundlessly for a moment, until Kathleen took pity on him and retook control of the conversation.  “Please, just ignore Devon.  It’s what we all do.”  She sent Devon a scolding glare, and he responded with a wink.  “As I was saying,” Kathleen continued pointedly.  “Alexander will not be attending tonight’s-”

Devon cut her off before she could get any further.  “Of course he won’t!  Too busy with this magical new boy he won’t stop bragging about.”  He rolled his eyes at Dean and John.  “Honestly, if I have to hear one more word about this kid- oh, don’t glare at me like that Kat!  I’m sorry I interrupted you again, alright?  Here, this is me being quiet now.”  He sat back on the couch, cowering under the force of Kathleen’s scowl, and holding out his hands in a “the-floor-is-yours” gesture.

“You are such a gentleman, Mr. Fontana,” Kathleen said waspishly.  She patted her hair, tucking away the wayward strands that had escaped from her many clips.  “As Devon here was not so eloquently putting it,” she said, “Alexander recently bought himself a new pet to play with-”

“Aw, don’t call them that!” Devon broke in, seemingly unable to contain himself.  “It’s so tacky.”

Dean barely heard him.  He was too preoccupied trying to hide that his knuckles were bone white from the iron grip he had on the sofa cushions by his thighs.  That had to be Sam they were talking about.  Sam was the “pet” (and how he hated Kathleen for calling him that, the bitch) that Alexander Cheverill was with _that exact second_.  Dean’s knuckles grew, if possible, even whiter as he fought the scream tearing like barbed wire at his insides.

“Listen,” Devon was explaining.  “All I’m saying here is that there are so many better terms we could use.  ‘Pet’ is so… unoriginal.”

“Well, when you come up with a better name Devon, you can let us know,” Kathleen said dryly.

“What were you saying Ms. Roberts?  About Mr. Cheverill’s boy?” John asked, attempting to steer them back to Sam.  He was smiling a polite, entirely fake smile and Dean thanked whatever gods were out there that Kathleen and Devon didn’t know him well enough to see the effort it was plainly costing him to be sitting calmly and listening to their chatter.

“You see, Devon?  This is how a real gentleman behaves.”  Kathleen turned back to John.  “Yes, Alexander has been extremely occupied lately with the pet he just bought a little over a week back.  Alexander is always this way when he gets a new one.”

“I’ll say.  The man won’t shut up about this kid,” Devon put in.  “If we’re going to keep talking about Alex, I’m going to need a drink.  Anyone for joining me?”

Kathleen ordered a brandy and soda.  John and Dean both declined the offer, and Devon vanished into the cigar smoke in the direction of the bar.  “So, the logging industry,” Kathleen said offhandedly, once he was gone.  “I find it interesting that you’re wanting to come to Marquette for a venture like that.”

Dean was getting the unpleasant impression that she wasn’t buying their cover story so easily.  He shrugged helplessly at her and spread his hands out in front of him.  “Sadly, we are just humble scouts,” he told her.  “We go wherever our bosses send us.”

“And you thought that the best way to contact Alexander was to come here?  It seems to me that a simple phone call would have been a bit more convenient.  And as he is not here tonight, a bit more fruitful as well.”  Kathleen’s voice remained deceptively bland.  Dean smiled back at her, indulging in the short fantasy of whipping his gun out from where it was stashed under his jacket and shooting her right through her twisted little heart.

John laughed self-deprecatingly.  “Ah, yes, um, coming here was not entirely professional from that point of view.  But, the truth is that if our company does end up expanding into Marquette, Mr. Ross and I will probably move here for a time to oversee things.  We wanted to check out how, uh, friendly Marquette might be to us, and we’d heard Mr. Cheverill shared our interests, so we decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

Kathleen nodded to herself, digesting this.  At last she leaned back in her chair with a satisfied air.  “And has Marquette made a favorable impression on the two of you?”

“Oh yes.  Definitely.”

Thankfully, Devon chose that moment to arrive with drinks, therefore putting an end to Kathleen’s interrogation.

“So,” Devon started, once he had handed Kathleen her glass and was reclining on his side of the couch.  “Are you going to the party tomorrow night then, Kat?”

Kathleen sighed delicately and lifted her brandy to her lips, draining half of it in one go.  “I suppose I’ll have to.  Alexander always takes it so personally when someone misses his events.”

“Mr. Cheverill is having a party tomorrow?” John broke in, leaning forward intently.

“That’s right, I forgot to tell you!” Kathleen said, slapping herself on the leg.  “Alexander is holding a big get-together tomorrow at his estate.  I hear the guest list is a mile long; he’s invited people from all over the country, the damned exhibitionist.  You boys should come along!  It’ll be fun, and you can get your chance to meet him.”  She beamed at them, ice rattling as she set her drink down.

“Oh yeah, you guys won’t want to miss this,” chimed in Devon.  “Alex’s parties are always worth going to.  And since this is the night Alex is unveiling his mysterious boy toy…”  He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.  “Maybe Alex’ll be feeling generous and share him around a little.”

Dean ground out a laugh, stifling the urge to throttle Devon’s scrawny neck with his own stupid silk tie.  “We’d love to come,” John replied.  He too was sporting a pasted-on smile, his eyes harder than uncut granite.  “I can’t tell you how impatient we are to meet Mr. Cheverill in person.”  

Devon grinned at him, but Kathleen hesitated before chuckling along with them.  Maybe she caught the less-than-businesslike eagerness in John’s tone.  “Well,” she said, after a moment of awkward silence.  “I know I’m excited to see this pet for myself.  You would not believe how irritating it was to listen to Alexander going on about him when I met him for lunch.”

“What kind of things?” Dean blurted.  He blushed as both Kathleen and Devon turned to stare at him.  “I mean, um, we don’t normally talk about things like that.  In Canada,” he covered lamely.

“We don’t normally do that here either,” Devon snorted.  “You’ll learn pretty quickly that Alex is a unique creature, and I don’t mean that in a good way.  I think most everyone would hate him if he didn’t throw such damned good parties.”

Kathleen laughed.  “Isn’t that the truth?  Even _with_ the parties I find it hard to put up with him.”  She tilted her glass up and drained the final drops gathered in the bottom.

As she did, a deep voice floated from between the shrouds of smoky air.  “Need a refill, madam?”

Devon’s head whipped around, and the white gleam of his teeth cut through the gloom as he grinned broadly.  “Andrew!” he exclaimed.  “When the hell did you get back in town?”

From the fog appeared a husky, stoutly-built man.  His round, babyish cheeks were flushed with alcohol, his thinning hair meticulously combed against his temples.  He beamed jovially down at the little group and shuffled over to Devon’s side of the couch to clap the other man solidly on the shoulder.  “Just got in this morning,” he declared.  In one hand, he held the end of a leather leash.  Even as Dean watched, he gave the leash a sharp tug, and a girl stumbled into sight through the haze.  She skidded to a stop beside Andrew’s feet and knelt there, breathing heavily through her nose.

Devon didn’t spare a glance her way.  “I had no idea you were coming here!  I thought you were going to be in the midwest for the next couple months?”

“I am,” Andrew grunted.  “Don’t remind me.  Next time I plan an extended business trip, I’m going somewhere with a beach or not at all.  But I figured I could take a small break and attend this party that Alexander is having.  Celebrating his latest purchase, isn’t he?”

“That he is,” Kathleen said.  “But before we go further, Andrew, I would like to introduce you to our newest acquaintances, Elliot Queen and James Ross.  They’re in Marquette with a business proposition for Alexander, of all things.”

Andrew did a slight double take as his eyes skipped over Dean and John, and he gave them both a puzzled smile.  “You boys are business partners?”

“I’m afraid so,” John said, falling just short of friendly.  He held out his hand to shake, and the leash jerked slightly in Andrew’s grip as he reached to take it.  Dean kept his gaze glued to the man’s breast pocket, stubbornly away from the girl on the floor.  He didn’t think it would help their cover if he punched Andrew in the throat and ran with her out of the room.

“-beautiful city in the fall,” Andrew was explaining to John.  “I hope you’re liking Marquette so far?”

“It’s made quite an impression,” John replied.

“Actually,” Kathleen interjected.  “I was just inviting Mr. Queen and Mr. Ross to Alexander’s party tomorrow.  Care to join us?”

Andrew sat himself heavily in the chair beside Kathleen’s.  “I’m honored!  I can’t speak for you all, but with all these rumors about Alexander’s new boy I’ve heard since I got back, my curiosity won’t let me rest until I’ve seen him for myself.  And speaking of, where is your boy, Devon?  I thought you brought him tonight.”

“Oh, he’s here somewhere,” Devon said, waving his hand airily.  “I lent him to Sophia a bit ago, told her to give him back whenever she finished up.  What about you Kat?  I didn’t think I saw your girl here.”

Kathleen shrugged, looking exasperated.  “Mine threw up this morning.  I had a doctor out to see her, but she was too sick to come.  If she’s not better by the party tomorrow I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Andrew hummed sympathetically.  “That’s unfortunate.  I hate it when they get sick.  It’s terribly inconvenient.”  He let his hand drop absentmindedly to stroke the hair of the girl by his feet.  Dean followed the movement instinctively, biting the inside of his cheek.  “But if she’s still indisposed, I’m sure these boys will be able to entertain you.  You’re in for a treat,” Andrew went on, directing his words at Dean and John.  “It’s always a spectacle when Alexander shows off a boy for the first time.”

Devon chuckled and muttered something inaudible into his drink.

“So we’ve been told.”  John’s teeth were bared in a wolfish smile.  “But while we’re on the subject, I think it’s time that Mr. Ross and I were taking our leave.  We’re still a bit jetlagged and it sounds like we’ll need to be well-rested for the party.”

Devon’s lower lip pouted out.  “But you only just got here!”  He spread his arms out wide, amber liquid sloshing in the tumbler clutched between his fingers.  “The night has barely even started!”

“I am aware, but we had a long flight to get here.  We probably wouldn’t be good company anyway.  Ms. Roberts, would you mind giving us directions for tomorrow?”

Kathleen set her glass down and started riffling through her purse for a pen and paper.  “I do wish you could stay a bit later,” she huffed.  She bent over the arm of her chair, scribbling, then turned and handed the piece of paper to John.  “The party’s at seven,” she informed him.  “You’ll need an invitation to get in, so I’ll meet you in front of the doors at around a quarter past?”

“Thank you,” John said, and Dean could tell how anxious he was to leave, which was fine with him.  He’d been ready to depart since before they’d stepped through the doorway.  Both of them rose to their feet.  Kathleen stood as well, and offered her hand to both of them so they could kiss the backs of her fingers.

“Until tomorrow,” she said, her voice rich and smooth as burnt chocolate.

“Until tomorrow,” John promised.  He and Dean shook Devon’s hand, and then Andrew’s.

“It’s a shame we didn’t get to know each other better,” Andrew rumbled as he clasped Dean’s palm.  “But I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow at Alexander’s.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Dean answered.  He didn’t like the feel of Andrew’s sweaty skin on his.  It made the stubbly hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

They said another round of final goodbyes.  Devon licked his lips, calling “I’ll be expecting a dance tomorrow, Mr. Ross!” to Dean as they started to pick their way across the smoke filled room.  Dean kept his gaze fixed on the back of John’s head, doing his best not to meet the haunted stares of the kids they passed.  A hard, cold stone had lodged itself just under his ribcage.  It weighed heavy and dead in his chest, and he very carefully ignored it, afraid that if he didn’t his vision would mist red and he’d pull out his gun and who knew what would happen next.  And he couldn’t lose control now, not when Sam was so close and when they had to find him before it was too late and his brother became no different than that little girl with eyes bleaker than the shattered, gaping windows of an abandoned house.  Dean breathed in deep and held it.  Let the air strain in his lungs as the seconds ticked by, and let it out in a slow gust.  He did it again, and once more until his back had straightened and new resolve burned coldly in his bones.

John reached the door and opened it out into the dank service hallway.  He didn’t look back before slipping through, but something made Dean halt at the threshold.  He scanned the room one final time.  Kathleen and Devon were where he’d left them, talking with heads close together.  Andrew was sitting beside them, and he saw Dean and gave him a wink.

And it must have been a trick of the light, Dean reasoned, as he ducked into the hallway after his father.  It must have been.  But for a strange moment, in the light of the lamps, Dean could’ve sworn that Andrew’s irises weren’t hazel green, but a sickening, putrid yellow.

 

* * *

 

 

They didn’t speak as they made their way back to the motel.  Dean was glad of it.  He was drained, unable to stop the flashing images of broken children running through his brain like a silent film.  The streets were dark, sliced through by the festering lights of city lamps.  When they finally stumbled into their room, Dean was swaying on his feet.  He shucked off his suit robotically and pulled on a clean pair of boxers before crawling into his bed.  He was already asleep by the time John came in.  He didn’t feel the mattress dip as John sat wearily on the bed beside him, nor did he feel as John gently drew the blankets up over him and padded silently away.

That night, Dean dreamed he was drowning.  The cold, black water closed over his head, whispering all around him.  Bubbles glowed silver where they brushed against his skin, like flecks of congealed moonlight chasing him through the murk.  He breathed out, and they floated upwards from his lips in a florescent stream.  Water rushed smooth and painless into his lungs.  It was peaceful and hushed, the wavering luminescence of the bubbles dimming as he sank deeper.  In the strange way of dreams, Dean knew he could stay there forever, safe in the liquid silence.  But as he drifted, an indistinct shape darted past him just outside the circle of light.  Dean peered through the dark water.  Then a hand wrapped around his ankle, claws digging into flesh, and he awoke with a jolt and a choked off cry.  His skin was sticky with cold sweat.  The sheets were knotted around his legs and he tore them away with trembling fingers, his heartbeat racing in his throat.

John was at the peeling kitchenette table, a mess of dismantled weapons in front of him.  He set down the rifle he was cleaning as Dean swung his legs out of bed and sat up.  “Bad dream?” he said.

Dean grunted, raking his hands restlessly through his hair.  “What time is it?” he asked.  Bright sunlight was leaking in through the chinks in the curtains.

“About five o’clock.”

“The party’s in two hours!  Why the hell did you let me sleep so long?”

John picked up his rag and the rifle.  “You needed the rest,” was his blunt reply.  “All we’re doing now is waiting.”

“Shouldn’t we go and scope the place out at least?”  Dean stood from the bed, reaching for a discarded t-shirt and tugging it over his head.  

John wiped the last traces of dust from the barrel of the rifle and put it aside.  “No,” he said, tapping his nails on the table.  “We’d draw too much attention to ourselves.  If we wait until tonight we can blend with the crowd.  It’ll be easier to sneak in and out with Cheverill’s normal security focused on the party.”

Dean watched as John selected a pistol from the pile and began cleaning away the grime with fluid strokes of the rag. _And where’s Sam while we’re here biding our time?_ Dean thought disgustedly.

“I’m going to shower,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

The gravel road was rough under the Impala’s tires, making the inside of the cab shudder and clatter as John drove.  The sky was just past sunset, and the cheerful oranges and pinks that had illuminated the clouds minutes ago were gradually dimming to shadowy purple.  The first few stars were becoming visible in the east.  In the insubstantial twilight, the trees milling along the boundaries of the road blurred in and out, gray shapes lost in the dusk.  Their long, balding branches leaned out over the car like spectators crowding the guardrails at a phantasmal parade, their scrabbling fingers glancing over the Impala’s roof sounding like the remnants of tattered applause.  Dean watched the featureless trunks unfolding out endlessly into the distance.  The leaves still clinging tenaciously to their boughs were losing their proud autumn colors.  Crackling brown already tinged many of their edges.   _This is just like any other hunt,_ Dean told himself.   _Just another hunt._  His fingertips drummed fitfully on the leather seat.

John broke the silence that had settled over them, untouched since they’d left the motel room.  “I don’t think you should come inside with me.”

Dean, taken off guard, jerked his head around to look at him.  John’s face was inscrutable.  Rather than softening them, the dying light only seemed to deepen the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes.  “Didn’t we go through this yesterday?” Dean asked.  “I’m coming with you.”

“Dean, you saw what happened at that club!” John’s hands tightened where they gripped the wheel.  “Everyone who met us assumed that you belonged to me.  I can’t put you at risk like that again.”

“Yeah, but nothing happened last night!” Dean pointed out.  “People backed off once we told them the score, so there’s no reason for tonight to be any different!”

John switched the headlights on, and the sudden brightness cut large swathes through the darkening trees.  “Dean, I can’t be worrying about protecting you in there,” he said.  “Finding Sam is going to be a hard enough job in itself without adding more to the mix.”

“Who says you have to worry about me?” Dean replied angrily.  “You’ve got no problem bringing me along on hunts.  You think after all the insane shit we’ve taken down I can’t protect myself from some horny rich guy?”

“I want you to wait in the car,” John continued, bulling right over Dean as if he hadn’t spoken.  “I want you ready to drive us out of here as soon as I come out with Sam.”

“Dad, I’m not going to wait in the car!  You’re going to need backup, and I’m not twiddling my thumbs when I could be helping Sam.  You said it yourself yesterday that he’s going to want me there!”

John fixed Dean with a stern, expectant stare.  “That’s an order, Dean.”  He turned back to the road, discussion clearly over.

Dean’s jaw worked furiously for almost half a minute.  Was John even listening to him?  Dean would stay in the car when hell froze over!  

John’s hands spasmed on the wheel.  “What did you say to me?”

Oh crap, he’d said that last bit out loud.  Nothing for it now.

“I’m going with you sir,” Dean said.  He didn’t think he’d ever heard his own voice so unyielding.  John was opening his mouth, a mixture of confusion and annoyance creasing his forehead, when the car swung around a bend in the road and a house of massive proportions came into view.  The appearance of it quieted both men as they took in the rolling lawns, the gargoyles snarling from the roof, the sweeping staircase leading up to ornately carved double doors.  Dean’s mouth was abruptly bone dry.  Sam was in there.

An attendant waved at the Impala from the side of the driveway, directing them over to a long line of cars already parked along the length of the house.  Dean goggled at the mansion as John brought the Impala to a halt.  Every window was blazing and the grass was splotched with patches of light.   _How in the hell are we supposed to pull off a rescue with all these people around?_  “I guess they didn’t mind starting the party early,” he commented to John.

They were examining the house, the only sound the faint concussions of music throbbing from a room somewhere above their head, when someone knocked on the driver’s side window, making Dean jump in his seat.  Devon stood outside, grinning in at both of them.  “So glad you chaps could make it!” he said once John had rolled down his window.  

“This is some place Mr. Cheverill’s got here,” John replied.

“Alex wouldn’t be Alex if he didn’t show off in every way he could!”  Devon winked at Dean, gaze wandering along the neckline of his suit.  “Mr. Ross,” he purred playfully.  “We meet again.  Allow me to say that you are absolutely stunning in that suit.”

“Uh, thanks.”  Dean fidgeted uncomfortably.  Suddenly a three-piece didn’t seem like enough clothing for the occasion.

“Well, I’ve got to run,” Devon said.  “I left some things in the car, but I’ll see you inside!  I’ll be waiting for that dance, Mr. Ross.”  He waggled his eyebrows, and Dean found himself wondering how many cats had gone missing in Devon’s neighborhood when he was a child.  Devon bade them goodbye and walked away across the grass through the maze of cars.

John watched him go, eyes glittering.  “See?” he hissed.  “This proves my point.  You’re not coming in and that’s that.”

“Sorry Dad, but no.”  Dean grit his teeth together.  If John was going to kill him for disobeying an order, he was going to have to do it after they got Sam back.  “I’m going in there, sir, and I’m going to save my brother.  Now are we really going to waste time fighting about this?”  He opened his door and climbed out onto the lawn.  Seconds later he heard John do the same.

“Fine,” John growled.  Grass swished as he strode around the Impala to stand beside Dean.  “But anyone tries to touch you, I’m sending you back to the car.  No arguments.”  He turned without waiting for a reply and strode off towards the front doors.  Dean took a moment to readjust the knife tucked into his sock and hurried to catch up.  He’d have time to revel in his victory later.

At the bottom of the staircase, Kathleen was expecting them.  Her dress tonight was a sleek, midnight blue.  Her red hair framed her round cheeks and full lips, and a polished diamond necklace rested at her throat.  She smiled when she caught sight of them and curtsied as they stopped beside her.  “Lovely to see you again, Mr. Queen and Mr. Ross,” she said, holding out her hand for them to kiss.  Dean wondered whether all the women here insisted on that as a greeting or if Kathleen was just irritating that way.

“And it’s a pleasure to see you, Ms. Roberts,” John murmured.

“Care to escort me in?”

“It would be an honor.”

Dean hung back a pace or two as they headed up the staircase, John’s arm linked with Kathleen’s.  They lingered for a minute at the entrance while Kathleen handed over her invitation.  The guy glanced over John and Dean distrustfully, but after Kathleen’s “they’re with me,” he motioned them through.

Dean found himself standing at one end of a large hall, tiled floor squeaking underneath his leather shoes.  On the right, a staircase rose to a second level.  To the left of him the doors leading to a dining room were standing open while in front of him, the direction that Kathleen was towing them towards, there was the beginning of a high-ceilinged corridor.  The entire space was packed with people.  The swells of their conversation crashed around him in waves, muffled and distant.

“Come on,” Kathleen was saying, her voice raised to be audible over the babble of other conversations.  “The party’s better in the back.”

“I’m curious, Ms. Roberts,” John ventured as they forged their way into the corridor.  “Don’t the local police ever show up to these gatherings?”

“Oh sure,” Kathleen shrugged casually.  The crowd was thickening as they turned right through another doorway into a small courtyard.  Dean had to swerve to the side to avoid spilling a woman’s champagne all over her skirt.  “They come to the club at least once a month.”

“You’re not acting like it’s much of a problem.”

Kathleen patted him lightly on the shoulder.  “You folks in Canada must have stricter police.  Ours don’t care much one way or another as long as we don’t parade around publicly.  We let them in whenever they come by, let them have a couple drinks, slip them some money, and they leave us in peace.  We don’t get hassled, and the officers enjoy some padding to their salary.  It’s a beneficial arrangement for everyone.”

“How nice.”

They exited the courtyard, moving farther through the house.  As they walked, Dean gave up trying to follow the exchange.  A sense of unreality had fallen over him.  It was as though he was viewing the scene from a television, except the connection was full of static and the cables weren’t attached quite right. He half expected to be back in his dream, the walls melting every time he glanced away.

Kathleen led them through the shifting crowd, stepping over the hems of dresses and around the occasional form of a kneeling figure with head bowed.  “You’ll have to meet my husband,” she called to them.  “He’s around here somewhere.  I left our pet with him.  Thank God she wasn’t so sick today.”

“And Mr. Cheverill?  Do you know where he is?”  John couldn’t quite hide the intensity in his voice.

“Of course!” Kathleen lifted her chin and motioned them forward, guiding them under an archway.  “Where do you think we’ve been going this whole time?  Alexander is right in here.”  Dean’s head snapped up.  The curious tunnel vision he’d gained since they’d climbed the front staircase fell away all at once.  With a jolt, he became aware of the nervous sweat prickling at the small of his back.  His ragged breaths were deafening in his ears, and he had to stuff his shaking hands into his pockets as he took in the scene before him.

They were poised on the threshold of yet another grand hall.  Towering windows to their right looked out onto a flawlessly manicured lawn, giving the impression that the entire room was exposed to the night air.  Tables of hors d'oeuvres were placed along all four walls, mainly dishes of foods Dean had never seen in his life.  Greenish cakes and little squid things that smelled absolutely vile, with sparkling flutes of champagne arranged in neat rows.  Dean regarded it all curiously, until he realized that John had come to a dead stop beside him, staring into the far corner of the room.  Dean followed his gaze with a feeling of building terror.  Placed against the back wall, there was a scattering of couches arranged in a slanted oval.  But as he squinted, trying to make out the details, he saw that there was a lone chair at the tip of the oval, angled so that it faced the room at large.  And on that chair, cradled in the lap of the man who sat there…

Dean felt his heart clench in his chest.

_ Sammy.  _


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I am so sorry. Apparently I have some sort of mental block when it comes to this website, which makes me forget that I posted this story on here. I remembered now! (again)

**Before:**

 

It was the evening when Cheverill announced the party that shit really hit the fan.  

 

The day had been pleasant enough until then.  Cheverill had been at work per usual, leaving me to my daily routine of napping and obsessive pull ups in the bathroom doorway.  A few days ago, I’d finally broken down and asked Cheverill for some books to pass the time with.  It’d been harder to do than I’d anticipated, the realization that I couldn’t even read without asking Cheverill for permission coming as a slap in the face.  But I’d received a stack of books for my troubles and whiled away part of the afternoon lying in front of the windows, a copy of _Great Expectations_ open in front of me.  I’d read it before, last summer at Pastor Jim’s, but whatever.  Beggars can’t be choosers.

 

Now it was early evening, and heavy, golden sunlight was slanting in through the windows and splashing hot across the floor.  Across the browning lawn, trees were calm and motionless, no gust of wind disturbing their fragile canopies.  Nothing stirred in the spaces between the trunks.  I hadn’t seen the ghost since that first glimpse two nights ago, after Cheverill had caned the soles of my feet, and yet I couldn’t be too upset that he hadn’t reappeared.  No doubt his bones were buried somewhere at the base of an unmarked tree, keeping him trapped in limbo and unable to move on after what Cheverill had done to him.  But I’d been stuck in this same room since the moment I’d arrived, and my pity didn’t change the probability that performing a salt and burn was next to zero.  Well, I’d most likely be joining him soon anyway.  Happy thoughts.

 

Cheverill had come in a few minutes ago, loosening his tie and arguing passionately into his phone.  I could hear him behind me, voice raised as he rummaged through his closet for a change of clothes.  I did my best to tune him out.  Like a cat, I was curled up on one corner of the couch, basking in my own personal patch of sunlight.  The warmth had made me sleepy as it soaked into my sore muscles, and I was watching through half-lidded eyes as honeyed dust motes floated aimlessly through the hazy, flaxen air.  After a while, Cheverill wandered over and sat on the couch next to me, still with the phone pressed to his ear.

 

“Does it sound as though I care about your excuses?” he snarled to whatever unfortunate soul was on the other end of the line.  “I was assured that they would be delivered by tomorrow.”  He paused, letting the other person talk.  His free hand slipped underneath my head and lifted it so that he could scoot to the side and lower my head and shoulders into his lap.  His fingers began combing possessively through my hair.  I considered slapping him away and slithering off the couch, until his thighs tensed under me and he shouted into the phone, “No, no, stop talking!  Just stop talking!  Do you hear my intonation at this moment?  That is the intonation of a man who is utterly unindulgent of such slovenliness.  Are you endeavoring to provoke me?  Because if so, I can guarantee you that it has been successful!”  I decided to stay where I was.  I had found that it was best not to draw attention to myself whenever his tone reached the murderous pitch it held now.

 

“Well it’s your job to cogitate a solution, isn’t it?” Cheverill snapped.  His scowl deepened as the other person responded.  “It means figure it out, you simpleton!” he roared a second later and slammed the phone shut.  “Cretins,” he growled.  “The incompetence of others will never cease to astound me.”

 

I closed my eyes, shutting out the glare of the sinking sun and Cheverill’s displeased expression.  Maybe if I stayed unresponsive he would get bored and go away.

 

“Honestly, Samuel, I purchased the champagne a week ago!  And now they inform me that they miscalculated, and the bottles won’t arrive until Friday?  It is entirely unacceptable.  Sometimes I speculate whether hosting a party is worth the inconvenience.”  His fingers twisted in my hair and yanked my head back so that I was looking up at him, my throat bared.

 

“Oh, yeah,” I said blandly.  “My heart bleeds for you.”

 

Cheverill chuckled humorlessly and shoved me off the couch.  I landed sprawled on my side, biting back a groan of pain as my cracked rib smacked into the floor.  Negligently, Cheverill kicked me over onto my back and planted his foot in the middle of my chest, leaning forward in his seat to stare down at me.  “Did I grant you permission to speak?” he asked, his heel grinding into my breastbone.  I sneered at him, too busy trying to breathe around the sharp ache in my rib to respond.  “What was that, Samuel?” he demanded, the pressure increasing as his weight bore down on my sternum.  Not really helping with the whole breathing situation.

 

“No,” I gasped out, pushing weakly at his ankle.

 

Cheverill tutted in dissatisfaction.  He slid his foot down and jammed it into my injured rib instead, repeating “did I grant you permission to speak, Samuel?”

 

The coppery tang of blood filled my mouth as I clamped my teeth into my bottom lip to hold back a whimper.  Cheverill’s heel dug into my side and I shook my head mutely, struggling to shield my abused rib.

 

“Excellent answer.” Cheverill removed his foot and sat back on the couch, surveying me with satisfaction.  “You’re learning Samuel, despite your pugnacious attitude.  It’s a wonderful transformation to observe.”

 

“I’d like to see your transformation after I fed you through a woodchipper,” I muttered quietly into the rug.  With my luck, I shouldn’t have been surprised that Cheverill heard me.  The cuffs sizzled, and liquid lightning stabbed blunt needles into my veins.

 

“You’re learning _slowly_ ,” Cheverill amended.  “A little slower than I had predicted, unfortunately.  You’re going to have to behave yourself at the party.  It’s your party, after all.  It would be ludicrous if the guest of honor was acting like an untamed brute.”

 

“W-what?  Party?  What are you talking abo-”  I shut up abruptly as Cheverill jabbed the ball of his foot again into my rib.

 

“You see?  It is precisely this manner of reprehensibility that I am concerned about,” Cheverill chided.  “You need to make a good first impression at your premiere debut Samuel.”  He rapped his knuckles contemplatively against his chin, sighed, and reached for his discarded phone.  “Go shower,” he ordered distractedly.  “I want you cleaned up before supper.  We’ll discuss this later.”  Already dialing, he gave me a meaningful push with his toes and reclined back on the couch, his interest in the conversation obviously gone.

 

I staggered to my hands and knees, only too happy to oblige him and get the hell out of there.  I could feel him watching as I started across the floor.  Perverted, psychotic asshole.  He loved seeing me crawl, loved knowing his whipping had left the soles of my feet too bruised for me to stand, even days afterward.  Just attempting to get to my feet brought tears stinging to my eyes.  And adding insult to injury, Cheverill had made it a habit to leer after me, frequently commenting that he should buy me a “venereal” leather leash to complete the look.  It made my skin creep.

 

I made it to the bathroom in record time, relieved to shut the door on Cheverill’s lewd, smirking face, and leaned my shoulders against the wall, putting my head in my hands.   _Shh, shh,_ whispered a voice from deep inside my mind.  It almost sounded like Dean. _Keep it together man, c’mon.  It’s okay._  I wrapped my arms around my knees and hugged them to me. _It could be worse, right?_ the voice reasoned.   _At least you get to shower alone today.  That’s something._

 

I inhaled slowly and scrubbed my hands through my shaggy hair.  Damn voice, always so optimistic.  I shuffled away from the wall and flipped myself onto my knees.  Tiles were smooth and hard beneath me, but from there I could grasp the edge of the counter and hoist myself up to sit on its polished marble surface.

 

I rested there for a moment, rubbing away the soreness in my kneecaps.  I could hear Cheverill pacing around the other room, incoherent mumbles filtering in through the walls, planning whatever party he’d been talking about.  A sick feeling rose in my stomach at the thought.  I was pretty damn sure that any party of Cheverill’s was not something I wanted to attend.  

 

Dispiritedly, I brushed the dampness off of my cheeks and began to inch out of the boxers Cheverill had given me.  It wasn’t the most graceful process.  Because I couldn’t stand, I needed to lie down on the counter and lift my hips to slide them off.  Normally I would have been able to do it without problems, but the position meant that all my weight was balanced on my upper back, which was still bruised from when Cheverill had stomped on me.  Once I got the boxers off, I twisted to examine it in the mirror behind me: a purple-black bootprint right between my shoulder blades.  The skin was swollen, and I was worried that tiny shards of broken vase had been embedded in it.  At least I couldn’t see any red lines of infection spreading from the site.

 

My clinical inspection widened to the rest of my torso.  Even though Cheverill fed me often enough, it was painfully obvious that I’d lost weight.  My skin was stretched over my ribs like too-thin canvas over a frame.  My hipbones jutted out from a flat -practically concave- stomach.  I traced a fingertip over my collarbone, so much more prominent that it had been just a week ago.  The collar gleamed above it.  It had yet to lose its metallic sheen, despite the wear it had been subjected to, still a tight noose draped around my neck.  My hair was longer now, as if to make up for the pounds I’d lost, long enough the brush the top of the collar and tickle the underside of my jaw.  The sight made me smile humorlessly.  Dad always hated my wild hair.  Cheverill liked it this way though, couldn’t get enough of it, or so it seemed.  He was always petting it, tangling his hands in it, using it to yank my head back and forth like a ragdoll…  Come to think of it, maybe I hated my long hair too.

 

I turned away from the mirror and gingerly edged off of the countertop.  My aching hands and knees protested as I crawled over to the shower and reached up to turn it on.  Water hissed onto tiles in a steady, relentless drumbeat.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment I inched the bathroom door open, water dripping from the ends of my hair, Cheverill was on me.  I barely had time to crane my head back to see him looming over me before his fingers were wrapping around my biceps and dragging me roughly to my feet.  I stifled a yelp as my back slammed against the wall, pain slicing through my broken rib.  My hands came up instinctively to push at the arms restraining me, but a second later Cheverill had gripped both my wrists and pinned them above my head.

 

“You know, the more I think on it,” he hissed into my face, “the angrier it makes me.”  His free arm was wedged across my windpipe, holding me several inches off the ground.

 

I struggled uselessly to wrench myself free.  “What… the hell… are you talking about?” I gasped out, trying to remember how to breathe.  From the feel of it, my rib was stabbing a hole through my large intestine.

 

“You, Samuel,” Cheverill said.  “Your uncouth attitude.  I am hosting a party in two days, and I will not permit you to continue behaving in such a manner.”

 

“Get… off me!” I choked.  The pain in my side was making my eyes prickle with tears and causing the edges of the room to shimmer like heat waves rising off asphalt.  I kicked at him, not really expecting to hit him, so when he released his hold and stepped back I was taken completely off guard.  I dropped onto my feet instinctively and immediately crumpled to the ground, sinking my teeth into my tongue to stifle a whimper.  Cheverill might as well have dunked the soles of my feet into buckets of molten, white-hot metal.

 

“You see?” Cheverill said, scowling down at me.  “Even now, you obstinately persist to make insolent comments, to use profanities after I expressly forbade it, and to disobey me like an untrained whelp.”  He reached down, ignoring my attempts to scramble away, and hauled me onto all fours by my hair.  “I had thought that I would not require such extreme measures,” he said.  His eyes bored into me, disgust and frustration swimming in their dark blue depths.  “But I can see no other way around it.  If I am going to break you of this undesirable stubbornness, it seems that I must employ a new strategy.”

 

“Hey, whoa now,” I stammered, summoning a weak smile that I hoped conveyed the obedient, non-whelp vibe.  “Let’s not make any hasty decisions here.”

 

Cheverill was not amused.  His expression darkened and a second later there was an unmistakable ripping sensation as he jerked me upwards onto my knees, tearing out strands of hair.  “You think this entertaining?” he said.  “I’m to present you to the public in a matter days.  If you’d only heeded me from the beginning, this would not have been necessary.”  He released me, tossing me into the wall so that the base of my skull smacked into hard plaster and stars momentarily spun before my eyes.  My wrists were yanked roughly away from my sides and my cuffs clipped together, and before I could even start to process what was happening, Cheverill had swung me up to dangle helplessly in his arms.

 

“What-” I said, but Cheverill’s fingers clamped down threateningly on the seam of my shoulder, and I shut up.  He carried me over to the closet, where he fumbled for a moment to unlock the door and toe it open.  I was dumped onto the floor under the racks of jackets and ties.  Cheverill pressed a palm firmly to my chest.

 

“Stay,” he ordered.  I glared at him as he turned away, resentment burning in my throat at being treated, once again, like a dog.  Cheverill vanished back into the main room, reappearing not seconds later with a velvet cloth bag in his hand.  I eyed the bag warily -I’d learned not to trust toys of Cheverill’s that I’d never seen before- but he merely put the bag to the side before crouching down to roll up the rug thrown across the closet floor.

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said, unable to stop myself as Cheverill finished uncovering the large trap door set into the wood.  Cheverill didn’t even bother to look up as he reached for his bracelet.  Sparks fizzled across my vision like static across a television screen, a light shock in comparison to what I normally received.  

 

“I hope you find your little quips gratifying,” Cheverill said, slotting his fingers into the crack where trapdoor met wood and levering the door open with a whisper of oiled hinges.  “I doubt you will think them worth the price once we are done.”  He picked up the bag and tucked it into his belt, then stalked over and scooped me up to his chest.

 

We stepped to where the opening in the floor yawned, the gate to what I was sure was going to be my very own specialized hell.  The beginning of a staircase was visible, descending down indeterminately, but the lighting was too weak to illuminate what lay at the bottom.  A chill crawled up my spine as Cheverill started down.

 

“I had this room constructed many years ago,” he said.  The shadows were thickening, his feet thumping hollowly in the oppressive gloom.  “You know, only around 2.5 percent of Americans claim to suffer from claustrophobia, but I’m inclined to believe otherwise.”  He paused, shifting his grip, and watery fluorescent lights flicked on overhead.  They buzzed tiredly, wavering as I stared around the small room.

 

It wasn’t that impressive.  I’d been expecting some horrific dungeon of torture instruments; whips and scalpels, a tank for waterboarding, maybe an iron maiden in the corner.  Instead, all that greeted me was a seemingly innocuous box placed in the middle of the concrete floor.  It was long and thin, almost coffin like, just big enough to fit a single person, and it didn’t take much imagination to guess what Cheverill was planning.  My lips shaped soundless words of protest, like car wheels spinning futilely to gain traction in half a foot of mud.

 

Before I could remember how to work my vocal chords, Cheverill had deposited me on the cold ground beside the box.  Immediately, I scuttled away from him, the cuffs digging into my wrists as I tried to wrench them apart.  “Please, don’t do this,” I croaked out.

 

Cheverill caught me easily by the elbow and unhooked the velvet bag from his waistband.  “You brought yourself to this point, Samuel,” he said, cocking an unsympathetic eyebrow as he upended the bag and a tangle of dark cloth and leather fell out.  “I warned you that actions have consequences, but you refused to listen.”  From the pile, he selected what appeared to be a leather square, straps coming off of two sides and a large rubber stopper affixed to the center.

 

My guess that it was some new gag was confirmed as Cheverill grabbed my jaw in one hand and forced the stopper into my mouth with the other.  Cheverill buckled the two straps behind my head, despite my efforts to throw him off, and sat back to admire his handiwork.  The leather plate obscured nearly the entire bottom half of my face, stretching across my cheeks and stopping just underneath my nose.  The bitter taste of rubber spread cloying over my tongue.

 

“Much better,” Cheverill smiled, tightening the straps.  “I rather enjoy you muzzled like this, Samuel.  It makes your rebelliousness endearing rather than irritating.”

 

I looked away, my eyes burning.  Cheverill laughed softly and bent to the two items left in the pile.  “Now, the purpose of this exercise is twofold,” he told me, voice transitioning seamlessly into lecture mode.  Lecture mode was never good.  “The first is unambiguous; I need you docile by Friday, and as I am quite busy, this is the most efficient way to bring that about.  The second is to impart upon you a lesson that you have stubbornly refused to accept.”  He was untwisting the fastenings of an intimidating, black blindfold.  He laid it aside and picked up the remaining metal case gleaming dully in the half-light.  He unlatched the lid and showed me the two earplugs inside.  “You are dependant on me, Samuel,” he said.  “I believe that your lack of deference flows from your incomprehension of this fact.  Once you understand that you no longer hold any measure of control over your life, I hope that your attitude will change.”  He pulled the earplugs from their case and gripped my chin to keep my head in place.  “I could leave you down here forever, and not a soul would stop me.  Think on that,” he advised, and worked the foam plugs into my ears.

 

Silence enveloped me.  Suddenly the only noises were the quiet rushing as I breathed and the steady, quick _thump-thump_ of my pulse.  Fingers nudged my jaw, tilting my head up, and I caught a glimpse of Cheverill’s toothy grin before the blindfold was pressed over my eyes and I was plunged into darkness.  My hands flailed, scrabbling to dislodge the blindfold, but Cheverill was already winding the straps over my ears, trapping the earplugs in place, and fastening them securely at the base of my skull.

 

My heartbeat pounded in my blocked ears.  I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t _talk_.  Arms were wrapping around my back, under my knees, hoisting me into the air.  I squirmed, the initial seeds of panic taking root as I felt myself being lowered and cold stone beneath me.  Something brushed across my cheekbone, the backs of Cheverill’s knuckles maybe.  It was the type of creepy affection he liked.  I shook my head to dislodge him, groping again at my face to try to wrestle the blindfold off, only to have Cheverill shove my wrists down to the side.

 

It was so incredibly disorienting.  I couldn’t tell from where the touches were coming from, or even what was touching me.  Two plastic tubes were being inserted into each of my nostrils, and a second later the cold, fresh smell of oxygen was filling my nose.  Cheverill hooked the cannula behind my ears, careful not to jostle the straps of the blindfold, then he was gone.  A shudder went through the ground around me and everything went still.

 

Slowly, I lifted my hands up in front of me.  After only a few inches they met cool, unyielding metal.   _Shit, shit, okay.  Don’t freak out,_ I thought to myself, stretching my arms first to the left, then the right.  Both times I encountered sheer metal crowding close on either side.  I closed my eyes behind the blindfold, sinking my nails into my palms to ground myself.

 

 _“You know, only around 2.5 percent of Americans claim to suffer from claustrophobia,”_ Cheverill had said.

 

_“I’m inclined to believe otherwise.”_

 

He’d locked me in the coffin like box.  He’d trapped me down here with no sight, no sound, no words to call for help.  I bit down hard on the stopper in my mouth, fighting to contain the irrational fear scratching insistently under my breastbone.  It was going to be fine.  This was better by miles than dealing with Cheverill.  I’d been trained by John Winchester, marine extraordinaire.  I’d faced off with ghosts and shapeshifters and crazy shit that sent most people running for the hills.  I wasn’t afraid of a goddamned box.

 

I did my best to relax against the cold bottom of the crate, ignoring the sting of my bruised upper back and the sharp ache in my rib.  I concentrated on breathing like Dad had taught me.  Deep and measured, breathe in, hold it, breathe out, hold it, counting to four each time.  The thundering of my heart calmed and slowed.

 

Ten minutes passed.  Twenty.  I shifted against the unforgiving surface, the pain from my back making me stutter in my rhythm.  Forty five minutes.  Maybe it was my imagination, but the room was unmistakably colder than it had been when Cheverill had carried me down.  The metal beneath me seemed to leech the heat from the air.  An hour passed.  An hour and a half.  I flexed my legs, wishing I could bend them and stave off the stiffness I could feel setting in.  Two hours, and my concentration was wavering as I counted the seconds.  How long was Cheverill planning on keeping me here?  Two and a half hours. I started to shiver.  The room was freezing, and I curled my hands against my stomach to warm my icy fingers.  Around the three hour mark I fell asleep.

 

I woke disoriented and confused, jerking up into a sitting position.  My forehead cracked into the top of the box, making stars flash behind my eyes and my chest reverberate as I groaned.  Without thinking, I reached for my throbbing head, only succeeding in jamming my hands against the top of the box.  My breath whistled through my nose as I forced myself to lie still.  Shit, how long had I slept?  My mouth was dry around the stopper, and though I couldn’t hear it, I guessed from the roiling in my stomach that it was growling insistently.

 

“Hey!” I shouted.  I banged my clenched fists on the top of the box, unable to tell if it made a sound.  “You’ve made your point, okay?”  

 

I hesitated, wondering if anyone would be able to decipher my words through the gag.  Probably not.  Well, it made me feel better anyway.  “Hey!” I yelled again.  “Let me out!  You’re not scaring me, you know!”

 

Nothing changed.  I pounded my fists angrily into the metal above me.   _Okay, whoa, calm down Sam_ , I reminded myself.  I needed to keep a clear head or else I really would lose it down here.  I inhaled the frosty air, grimacing to myself.  If Cheverill was aiming to give me hypothermia, he was on the right track.  I traced the metal lid above me with my fingers, imagining that it was a brittle sheet of ice that I could shatter with a gentle tap.  The surface was slick and unbroken, but I paused as my touch skimmed over a shallow groove carved into the metal.  There was another just next to it, and another beyond that.  I followed them down, and realized with a thrill of horror that they were perfectly spaced for me to slot my nails into them.  Scratch marks, left by one of the previous boys Cheverill had locked in here.

 

 _Jesus fucking christ._  I tore my hands away, squeezing my eyes shut in the blackness of the blindfold.  Trying not to imagine how desperate a kid would have to be to leave grooves as deep as that.  I wanted out, God I wanted out.  I rammed my fists once more into the lid of the box.  “Hey!” I called out, desperation constricting my lungs.  “Let me out!”

 

And to think that I actually _wanted_ to see Cheverill, because it would mean he had come down to get me out of this god-forsaken coffin.  I slumped back, forgetting for a moment my broken rib, which reminded me promptly of its presence as it jarred against the bottom of the box.  I bit down on the stopper to prevent a gasp, trying to curl protectively around my side on reflex.  My knees smacked into the side of the box before I’d moved more than half and inch.

 

God _dammit_.  Frustration boiled up inside me.  I ground my teeth into the stopper, an ache building in my chest as I fought not to scream.  My hands bunched into fists and I struck the metal above me once, twice, three times, refusing to stop even as my knuckles split and wetness coated the smooth surface as they bled.  The pain registered dully in a far corner of my mind as I clawed at the lid, battering at it with all of my strength.

 

At last, I subsided, allowing my bruised hands to fall back to rest on my stomach.  A headache was hammering at my temples and I was surprised to feel drying tear tracks running from underneath the blindfold, carving patterns through the film of clammy sweat that had beaded across my skin. _God, if Dad could see me,_ I thought, disgusted with myself.   _So weak I can’t even do a simple breathing pattern.  I’m fucking useless._  I shivered miserably, positive that my breath was misting in the frigid air.  Surely, someone would come get me soon?

 

_“I could leave you down here forever, and not a soul would stop me.”_

 

And so the hours dragged on, lost in the cold and the dark and the silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Light.

 

Sound.

 

Hands guiding me into a sitting position as I flinched away from the blinding light cast by the feeble overhead strips.  Someone was speaking, a deafening, screeching rumble that made my head hurt and my ears ring.  A face swam into view above me.  It’s edges were blurred and unfocused, even as I blinked watering eyes and squinted against the unbearable brightness.  Thick brown hair.  A square, handsome face.  Close-set eyes.

 

“Jesus, kid, what did he do to you?”

 

Arms under me, lifting me into the air.  My head resting on a broad shoulder.  The man was warm, where he touched me nearly burning my frozen skin.  We were going up, and the light grew worse, so much worse, and hundred times worse.  I turned to shield my eyes against his collar, trembling from the stabbing pain.  The man’s arms tightened around me.  Then I was being wrapped into a thick blanket, and the man lowered me carefully to the floor.

 

Footsteps.  A door swinging open and shutting again.  The sounds of rustling from the next room over.  Fingers on my chin, coaxing it back and a glass pressed to my cracked lips.

 

“Small sips kid, that’s it.  We don’t want you to get sick and throw it all back up.  We’ll see if we can’t get some food into you later.”

 

More footsteps, but these were lighter than before, two sets of them.

 

“Are you the girls Mr. Cheverill sent up to get him ready?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

Voices like windchimes in a breeze.  Too loud, too loud.

 

“Make sure you fix up his hands then.  They’re a wreck.  And see if you can’t cover up these bruises on his back and side.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

A door closing.  Shadowy shapes flitted around me, like fish darting through reeds at the fringes of a pond.  A small palm touched my cheek, brushed the tangled hair from my eyes.

 

“The poor darling, he looks like a puppy left out in the rain.  Do you think he can even hear us?”

 

“I’d be pretty comatose myself if I’d been locked in a trunk for two days.  Let’s get him into the shower.  We need to wash off all this filth.”

 

Water splashed against tiles.  The blanket was removed from my shoulders and my soiled boxers were cut away from my hips.

 

“You’ve got the chair set up?  Alright, on three we lift him into it.  One, two…”  A spray of fiery water hit my chest, sluicing over my legs and sending sizzling flames of pain into my bones.  “God, he don’t weigh nothing does he?  He’s got no meat on him at all.”

 

A bar of soap was rubbed over my collarbone and down each of my arms.  Someone clucked compassionately.  “Well, Carter wasn’t lying.  Look at the state of his hands!  His knuckles are torn to hell and back.”  Soap was lathered into my knuckles, stinging when it seeped into the cuts.  My hand jerked feebly as I attempted to pull it away.

 

Fingers scrubbed shampoo through my overlong hair, and a steady jet of water washed the suds away.  “Can you hand me the conditioner?  It’s by your foot.”

 

“Here.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The fingers were back in my hair.  Bottles clattered, and the stream of water was passed over my chest, my back, my legs, my face.

 

“Reckon he’s good then?”

 

“Yeah, let’s stand him up and we can dry him off.”

 

The water stopped.  The larger woman slipped under my armpit and urged me off the chair, supporting me so that my weight stayed on her and not my injured feet.  The other draped a towel over the chair and motioned for me to be put back down.  Once done, they attacked me with more towels, chafing them over my skin until I was bright pink.

 

“That’s better!  He’s got some color at least.”

 

“What’re we gonna do ‘bout these bruises though?  Makeup’s not gonna be able to cover ‘em.”

 

“Guess we’ll have to paint over them.  I’ll start that if you finish up his hands?”

 

“Aw, poor baby, he’s gone and shredded his nails as well.”

 

A sticky brushstroke tickled down my ribs.  A repetitive clicking noise was accompanying slight tugs at my fingers as the small woman set about trimming my splintered nails.  I blinked at her, taking in her features for the first time.  She was a petite little thing, with straight dark hair caught in a long ponytail at the nape of her neck.  She appeared to sense my gaze on her and glanced up, smiling with crooked teeth when her brown eyes met mine.  The tip of the brush swirled up over my spine.

 

She finished clipping my nails and brought out a bottle of clear polish, the pungent smell of chemicals filling the air.  Next came makeup, powders whisked onto my cheeks and a black liner applied around my eyes.  The larger woman completed her painting and together they massaged a syrupy lotion over every inch of my body, followed by a coating of golden dust that made my skin shimmer when I moved.  A comb was tugged through my knotted hair.

 

And then I heard the voice. _His_ voice.

 

“It’s nearly time, girls!  I trust Samuel is almost ready as well?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Cheverill.”

 

“Just a few more things to be done, Mr. Cheverill.”

 

A shape stepped into view and bent down to examine me, tilting my face back and forth.  “Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.  You girls have outdone yourselves.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Cheverill,” the two women chorused.

 

Cheverill pressed his thumb against my bottom lip.  “Ah, Samuel, I can see you’re still somewhat hebetudinous.  I gather it can be overwhelming, so many sensations at once after such utter deprivation.  You’ll find that the shock wears off after a time.”  A dull pinch in my left bicep, and a warm lethargy spread from the site.  “I can’t have you regaining your senses during the party, so this is just some insurance.  We want you nice and subservient for our guests.”  

 

A strange lightness was rushing through me.  I let my head flop against the back of the chair, my neck suddenly too weak to support it.  Laughing, Cheverill petted my hair and brought his attention back to the two women.  “Carter is bringing up his attire,” he informed them.  “Once you have concluded your preparations, you may dress him and have Carter deliver him downstairs.  The guests have started arriving and I must attend to them.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Cheverill.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Cheverill.”

 

He leaned over to kiss me, smiling against my numb lips.  “It’s your night, Samuel,” he whispered.  “Let’s give them a show they’re not bound to forget.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Now:**

 

John Winchester was a man of determination and steel.  This was a fortunate thing; the sheer willpower it took for him to reach calmly forward and shake Cheverill’s slimy little paw might have killed a lesser man.  Especially when Cheverill’s other arm was wrapped possessively around the waist of his youngest son.  But through a tremendous display of self-control, John had succeeded in not snapping Cheverill’s wrist as he introduced himself and Dean with a rigidly amiable expression stapled to his face.

 

The two Winchesters were seated on the low couch directly to Cheverill’s right.  It had been easier than expected to send Katherine into the crowd so that they could push their way into Cheverill’s corner of the room.  The more difficult task had been maintaining pleasant, friendly demeanours as they finally stepped up beside the man and broke into the conversation.  After all, John didn’t think Cheverill would have been nearly as welcoming if his features had been screaming  “intent to kill has been activated”.  Because there was no question about it, Cheverill wasn’t making it to the end of the night alive.  John had known this from the beginning, but it only took one glance at Sam to bring all his bloodlust surging to the forefront of his mind.  

 

John could hardly connect the boy lying lifeless in the cage of Cheverill’s arms to the bullheaded, confident son he’d argued with just a few short weeks ago.  Sam’s body glittered gold in the diamond lights of the chandeliers, sparkling as he breathed.  Bones protruded where once they had been covered with layers of muscle and fat.  His head was tilted back to rest on Cheverill’s shoulder, overlong hair tumbling across his forehead and sticking in damp strands to the back of his neck, not quite able to hide the pair of sluggish, unfocused eyes that gazed vacantly into space.  John’s heart had just about stopped when he’d caught a glimpse of them, terror that his son was well and truly broken nearly bringing him to his knees.  It wasn’t until he’d realized that Sam had been drugged that he could bring himself to relax back into the cushions.

 

Sam’s only article of clothing was a pair of dark red shorts, molded tight around his hips.  They were made of leather and scarcely reached the tops of his thighs.  A thick silver collar was clamped around his neck, matching the two polished manacles locking his wrists together in front of him.  His mouth was open, held there by a slim metal ring stuck behind his teeth, and leather straps kept the gag firmly in place.  Heavy black liner had been traced around his eyelids, accentuating their slight upwards tilt, and streaks of golden-red trailed down across his cheeks like scarlet tears.  A circlet of crimson feathers was pinned to his chestnut hair.

 

“Indeed,” Cheverill had been chuckling as they’d joined the circle, nodding proudly.  “I employ a pair of women who are simply exquisite when it comes to these matters.  You see?”  He had manhandled Sam’s pliant body to the side, showing the group the pair of blazing wings that had been painted across the entirety of his back.  They reached from the tops of Sam’s shoulders all the way down to the base of his spine, the tips disappearing under the waistline of his shorts.  The feathers flashed iridescent under the smoky lighting, an endless pattern of orange-yellow-gold that made it appear as though flames had been trapped beneath Sam’s skin.  “It’s a phoenix,” Cheverill had explained impatiently to his bemused audience.  “Rising from the ashes of his old life?  Surely one of you must appreciate…?”  He’d given up and trailed off, sighing.

 

“Yes, he’s quite something, isn’t he?” came a voice.  John jerked his fixed stare away from his son, only to find Cheverill watching him with a smug smirk playing around the edges of his lips.  The air he projected was that of a small child, superior in the knowledge that he had the best toy on the playground.

 

“Oh, uh, yes,” John stammered, dredging up a smile and doing his best to leer appropriately.  “Quite… something.”

 

“Where’d you find him, Alexander?” interrupted the man directly to Cheverill’s left.  He too was leering, but John didn’t think there was anything forced about his expression.

 

Cheverill snorted, his attention swiveling away from John.  “You know I only conduct business with the most reputed of professionals,” he said.  He waited for the swell of agreements to die down, fingers spread over Sam’s ribcage, before continuing.  “I purchased Samuel here from Mr. Julien Hargrove.  Though I often found his selection to be somewhat lacking in the past, I must say that I am well satisfied.”  He slid his hands up to play with the golden bars that pierced Sam’s nipples.

 

“You heard about what happened to him?”  Another man leaned forward, rapping his fists excitedly against his knees.  “That whole organisation’s crumbled!”

 

Several eyebrows around the circle were raised.  “What do you mean?” Dean said innocently, trading a swift glance with John.

 

“I mean they’ve been busted!” the man said.  He appeared delighted to have captured the spotlight.  “Two of their members were arrested just a couple of days ago.  I only heard about it myself this morning.  Apparently the cops found them in some motel room, completely beat to hell.  Nobody knows who did it to them, but there was enough evidence that the police cuffed ‘em then and there.  Now they’re naming names to try to get their sentences shortened.  I heard Julien Hargrove was one of the first guys the police tracked down!”

 

“No shit,” said one of the audience, shaking her head.  

 

“Getting harder and harder to stay under the radar nowadays,” another commented.

 

“Good thing you grabbed this one before they got caught, eh Alexander?”  It was again the man to Cheverill’s left, and he had gone back to ogling Sam with undisguised lewdness.  

 

Cheverill gave an arrogant laugh.  “Yes, I would say so,” he said slyly.  “It would have been a shame for all of Samuel’s considerable potential to have gone to waste.”  John felt Dean shift angrily in his seat, barely contained tension thrumming through his muscles.  The motion caught Cheverill’s eye.  “Ah, forgive me!” he exclaimed, fidgeting so that Sam’s head rolled limply to rest in the crook of his neck.  “We have not yet been properly acquainted.  Mr. Ross, wasn’t it?  And Mr. Queen?”

 

John inclined his head, nudging Dean until the latter ripped his gaze away from Sam and gave Cheverill a distracted grin.  “It’s nice to meet you,” John said.  “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“All good things, I’m sure,” Cheverill replied, eyes glittering in the light of the chandeliers.  “I’m afraid I cannot claim the same, however.  Where did you mention you were from?”

 

“Canada.  We made the trip down to visit our friend.  Kathleen Roberts?”

 

“Ah yes, of course.”  Cheverill waved his explanation away disinterestedly.  His attention was focused on Dean, who after the first greeting had lost track of the conversation, staring openly at his little brother.  For the thousandth time, John regretted his decision to allow Dean to come.  “I see you have impeccable taste, Mr. Ross,” Cheverill remarked.

 

Dean started, his head jolting up as though snapping out of a trance.  “Uh, thank you?” he mumbled bemusedly.  John bit his lip at Dean’s dazed tone.  He needed to get them both out of there, find them a quiet place for Dean to collect himself.  His eldest was wearing an expression not dissimilar to those John had often seen on the faces of his fellow marines, right after a grenade had gone off only feet from their position.

 

“I merely say this for the obvious appreciation you have for Samuel,” Cheverill continued.  His fingers toyed idly with the bar driven through Sam’s right nipple, twisting it until Sam let out a soft whimper from behind his gag.

 

The sound sent a haze of red over John’s vision and he’d reached for the gun tucked under his jacket before his mind had time to catch up.  He stopped himself just before his gun cleared the holster, shuddering as he fought the roaring in his chest and pushed the gun back into place.   _Not here, not here_ , he chanted silently.  There were too many witnesses, too many variables.  Maybe Dean wasn’t the only one who needed a moment to pull himself together.  John felt as though his nerves were stretched wire-thin.

 

Fortunately, it seemed as though his aborted murder attempt -the entire process having taken less than three seconds- had gone unnoticed.  “I, uh, yeah,” Dean was stammering blankly.  “He’s really, um, nice…”

 

Cheverill’s smile was growing darker and darker.  “Yes, quite ‘nice’ as you put it,” he said, hooking two fingers under the waistband of Sam’s shorts and watching as Dean’s eyes tracked the movement.  “You appear distracted, Mr. Ross.”

 

“Wha- I, no!”  Dean flushed, shaking his head clumsily.

 

“It’s perfectly alright.  I can understand how my Samuel might prove… titillating.”

 

“No, it’s not-! I wasn’t… _‘your’-?_ ”  Dean trailed off, jaw working furiously.  Words had evidently deserted him.

 

Cheverill seemed to take it as a sign of envy rather than of rage.  He chuckled, hands now resting on the insides of Sam’s thighs, spreading Sam’s legs wider and pulling him backwards so that his ass was pressed firmly against Cheverill’s hips.  Sam let out another, nearly inaudible moan as he was jostled, and John had to reach back and grab a fistful of Dean’s jacket to stop him from launching himself off the couch.

 

“Dean, you have to calm down,” he hissed under his breath, barely moving his lips.  Dean was practically quivering beside him.

 

“I’m gonna kill him,” Dean said, the hubbub of the ongoing party restricting his words to a whisper that only John could hear.  “I’m gonna shoot him right between the goddamn eyes.”

 

“Oh, c’mon Alexander!” someone said, cutting off John’s reply before it could form.  “You’re not just going to dangle that in front of us all night are you?”

 

John sent Dean a “get-that-snarl-off-your-face-right-now” glare as Cheverill frowned at the speaker, a man sitting a few places to John’s right.  “Now, Brady, you know I don’t like to share my toys,” he said lightly.

 

Brady spread his arm, earnestly indicating the hall and the guests.  “But isn’t this his welcoming party?  How else is he going to get to know everyone?”

 

There was a scattering of laughter at his words.  A couple of people whistled approvingly.  “Hmm.  I suppose it _is_ a special occasion, Cheverill mused.  “And I’m sure Samuel would just love to meet you all.”

 

“Of course he would!” Brady said, accompanied by the cajolements echoing around the group.  John found suddenly that his palms were hot and sweaty, his fingers white where they still gripped the back of Dean’s jacket.  Every pair of eyes around the circle had fixated on Sam and a palpable eagerness was making the bristles on the back of John’s neck stand up.

 

“What do you think, Samuel?” Cheverill asked seriously, looking down at the crown of Sam’s head.  “Would you like to make some new friends?”  He shrugged his shoulder, making Sam’s chin dip in the gross approximation of a nod.  More laughter swept around the circle.  John ground his teeth together, struggling to blink away the murderous haze encroaching on his sight. _Not here, not here goddamnit.  Fucking pull yourself together,_ he growled to himself.  He almost missed it when Cheverill turned to Dean, inquiring “would you like to go first, Mr. Ross?”  

 

Dean’s eyes grew wide at the abrupt offer.  “I- yeah,” he managed, reaching forward to pull Sammy against his chest.  Cheverill let him, but John felt a spike of unease at the shrewd watchfulness on his face.  

 

He might have found a way to convey his misgivings to Dean, but his eldest was blind to the world. The instant Sam had flopped against him, John guessed that nothing short of the mansion burning down around them would have registered with him.  He cradled Sam gently, as though the slightest jostling would cause Sam to break apart like a clump of dandelion seeds in the wind.  With one hand, he brushed back the damp bangs clinging to Sam’s forehead, fingers lingering on the straps of the gag buckled over Sam’s cheeks.

 

“I see he meets with your approbation?” Cheverill said.

 

Dean grunted distantly, not even bothering to lift his head.  John snuck a peek over his shoulder and the vivid close-up of Sam’s rail-thin body hit him like a blow.  He could’ve easily wrapped his fingers around his son’s frail wrists.  How the hell had Sam been reduced to this in only a couple of weeks?

 

“God, would you get on with it already?”  The man sitting across from Dean, the same bastard who’d been salivating at Sam ever since they’d entered the conversation, snorted with impatience.  Before Dean could fully drag himself out of his reverie, the guy had leaned forward and snatched Sam out of his slack grip.  He positioned Sam on his lap, maneuvering Sam’s legs so that they straddled the guy’s crotch, the wings painted over Sam’s back glowing softly as they caught the light.  “Well, aren’t you beautiful?” the guy told Sam.  “He’s got ‘hurt me’ written all over him, doesn’t he?”  He tilted Sam’s head back with a hand in Sam’s tousled hair and stuck his other down the front of Sam’s shorts

 

John, who’d been momentarily occupied trying to keep Dean from leaping after his brother, released his subtle hold on Dean’s jacket as a growl of his own bubbled in his throat.  The woman beside him flinched in surprise, peeking over at him suspiciously and John tamped his emotions down with shaking hands.  They couldn’t blow their cover, dammit.

 

“You ever considered taking this costume thing a bit further, Alexander?” the guy was asking.  His hand had moved from the front of Sam’s shorts to the back and he licked his lips suggestively.  “Imagine how hot he’d look with a little tail sticking out from right-” his arm twitched, and even drugged as he was Sam managed a shocked, hurt noise of protest- “here.”

 

John could take no more.  Staying longer would end with a pile of bodies, though whether he would draw his gun first or if Dean would beat him to it was a question that would have to go unanswered.  “C’mon,” he muttered to Dean.  Throwing out excuses that hardly registered, John dragged Dean to his feet and shepherded them both out of the circle of couches, the memory of Sam’s frightened expression seared black into his brain.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean staggered into the cramped powder room, slamming the door behind himself.  He couldn’t decide whether to throw up or ram his fist into the frosted mirror.  Maybe both.  He leaned against the sink -a delicate construction of black and white marble- and tried to even out his ragged breathing.

 

His dad was right, he had to calm down.  With the way he’d been behaving in front of Cheverill, it was a miracle they hadn’t been tossed out on their asses.  Not that Dad had been any better.  He’d been standing rigid in a corner of the giant hall when Dean had left him to search for a bathroom, his hands clenching rhythmically at his sides.

 

Dean ran the tap with trembling fingers.  How in the hell were they supposed to pull off a rescue mission in all of this?  The mansion was packed to the rafters with these sick freaks.  He and Dad couldn’t get through them all.  And, even worse, the more time they wasted was more time that Sam was being put on display like a prize horse.  God, Sammy.  He’d been so light when Cheverill had dropped him into Dean’s lap.  This was the same kid Dean had sparred with for years, and yeah sure, while Sam was in the middle of a neverending growth spurt he wasn’t exactly a brick shithouse, but he sure as hell hadn’t been lacking in muscle mass either.  But any bulk Sam may have possessed was long gone by now.

 

Dean cupped the warm water and splashed it over his face.  His skin felt clammy, so he cranked the water even hotter and watched as coils of steam began to fill the air.  He splashed more over his cheeks, scrubbing a hand through his hair until the spikes stood in every direction.  The prospect of exiting the bathroom was terrifying.  He couldn’t bear to see Sam again like that, being passed from person to person.  He felt like the world’s biggest coward. _While you’re in here denying it, Sam’s out there living it,_ he reminded himself angrily.   _What the fuck is wrong with you?_

 

He shook himself and shut off the tap.  Just as he was turning to the door, a knock sounded from the other side.  “Yeah, yeah, it’s all yours buddy,” Dean grumbled.  “I’m leaving-”  But the door opened before he could finish and a man was stepping into the bathroom with him.  “Hey!” Dean began short temperedly, not in the mood to deal with some drunk partygoer.  Then he recognized the carefully mussed shock of blond hair.  

 

“Mr. Ross,” Devon cooed, closing the door behind him.  Dean’s hackles rose at the incongruous click of the lock slotting into place.  “Are you alright?  When I saw you stumble in here, I was worried you might have had a little too much to drink.”

 

Dean dodged away from him, trying to circle towards the door.  “Uh, no, I’m fine,” he said, skin prickling uncomfortably.  Why the hell had he wandered off without Dad?  “I’m fine,” he repeated.  “So, uh, thanks for the concern.  I was just going back to the party...”

 

Devon didn’t budge.  “But it’s nice to have this little bit of privacy, wouldn’t you agree?  I’ve been wanting to catch you alone all night.”   He took a step forward, crowding Dean into the bathroom wall.  

 

“Look,” Dean said quickly, “Eliot, my- my business partner, he’s waiting for me, so why don’t we talk later?”

 

Devon’s bottom lip pouted out and he scrunched his nose.  “Oh, can’t he handle himself a little longer?  Besides, I still haven’t gotten that dance I’ve been waiting for.”

 

“Yeah, sorry.  Take a hint though, man.  I’m really not interested,” Dean said, dropping his polite tone.  He didn’t have time for this shit.  “I’m sure you’re a-” _psychotic, fucked-up_ “-great guy, but I don’t swing that way.”  He went to push past Devon, but halted when his shoulders were caught in a bruising grip.  A second later all the air was knocked out of him as he was rammed back into the wall.

 

“I don’t remember making this a request, Mr. Ross.”  Devon’s eyes were hooded.  Dean gaped at him, stunned by his unexpected strength.  The guy was shorter than him, for God’s sake!

 

“Get the fuck off of me,” he demanded, groping for the solid weight of the gun tucked against his side.  “No means no, asshole.”  As he drew his gun, willing to threaten the guy if that was what it took, there was a blur of motion.  Pain radiated up Dean’s arm and his gun clattered loudly to the floor.

 

Devon tutted at him.  “Now isn’t that funny?  Who’d have thought you needed one of these working for a logging company?”  He kicked the gun casually out of reach.

 

“What the hell do you want?” Dean asked, clutching at his throbbing arm. _How did he know I had a gun?_

 

Behind them, the door rattled on it’s hinges and an indistinct voice reached them through the wood.  Devon gave a long-suffering sigh.  “God, I hate being interrupted,” he said.  “I guess we’ll have to pick this up later.”   Faster than Dean could react, Devon had pinned both his wrists to the wall.  The bathroom door flew open.  The last thing Dean saw was John’s face, livid with fury, before Devon’s fist smashed into his cheek and sent Dean crashing into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

“Let him go.”  John’s voice brooked no arguments.  His gun was out, and it was a damn good thing that the bathroom was situated at the end of a deserted hallway because John hadn’t thought twice before leveling it at Devon.  Hopefully the ruckus of the party would drown out the blast of the gunshot when John put a bullet in Devon’s brain.  He’d already seen one son molested tonight and been powerless to stop it.  He wasn’t letting anyone do the same to Dean.

 

Devon sneered at him, hoisting Dean’s body higher against his chest.  “We both know you’re not going to shoot me,” he said.  “Not when you risk hitting him.  So why don’t you set your gun down and we can chat like civilized people?’

 

“You have a pretty fucked up definition of civilized if that’s what you call yourself,” John barked.  “Let him go.”

 

Devon rolled his eyes dramatically.  “There’s no need to be so rude Johnny-boy.  Can’t you tell we’re on the same side?”

 

John stiffened.  Then the muzzle of his gun snapped up and pointed at Devon’s forehead, unwavering.  “How do you know that name?” he demanded.  “Who are you?”

 

Dean’s head drooped forward as Devon readjusted his hold.  “Can’t you guess?” he grinned.  He blinked once, and John’s knuckles whitened around the gun as black flooded Devon’s once-blue eyes.

 

“Demon,” John spat breathlessly.

 

“Ding, ding, ding!  Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!” Devon said sardonically.  “Took you long enough to figure it out.  I thought hunters were supposed to be good at their jobs.”

 

“I should have known your kind would be here.”  John allowed the tip of the gun to dip slightly.  Not that normal bullets would have helped him much anyway.  “This place must be fucking Nirvana for you bastards.”

 

The demon sniggered, his irises flicking once more to blue.  “Oh, you’re not wrong Johnny.  I do love these little get togethers.  So much delicious sin,” he winked cheerily.  “But tonight I’m here on business.  As I mentioned, for the moment we’re sharing a side.”  John scoffed, but the demon overrode him.  “Can your righteous bullshit Johnny.  Believe it or not, we’ve got the same goal.”

 

“Oh yeah?  And what would that be?”

 

“Freeing poor, beleaguered Sammy, of course.”

 

John paused, eyes narrowing.  “Why do you give a flying fuck about Sam?”

 

Though he was supporting some 170 pounds of dead Dean-weight, Devon somehow managed to extract a wrist and examine his fingernails blithely.  “Classified info, sorry,” he quipped.  “Just know that he’s got an intended purpose, which doesn’t involve being the fucktoy for a rich douchebag.”

 

“Whatever you’re planning with him, you can give it up now,” John snarled.  “You aren’t getting him.  I’ll die before that happens.”

 

“That can be arranged,” the demon said, baring his teeth unpleasantly.  “You should know that we always get what we want Johnny.  Even my boss’ boss is here to make sure things go smoothly.  You met him earlier, in fact.”

 

“And you’re all here to help save Sam,” John said skeptically.  

 

“Well, we were.” Devon shrugged.  “Now we know that you’re here, we might as well let you guys do the heavy lifting.  No use getting our hands dirty if there’s no need, you know?”

 

“So why the hell even stick around this long?  You could have left without ever letting me know that you were here.”  Dean was stirring feebly.  John willed him to stay down, just a few seconds longer.

 

“Uh huh, that’s true.  Unfortunately, my boss’ boss is pretty pissed that someone has been messing around with his investment.  After you get dear Sammy out, we’ve got orders to have some fun and raze this place to the ground.”  He laughed hungrily.  “And oh boy, I’m excited.  Much as I love these parties, I’m going to love tearing it down even more.”

 

John stared at him, aghast.  “You can’t mean that you’re going to-”

 

Without warning, Dean gave a feeble groan.  His head raised by increments and he pawed dazedly at the forearm Devon had wrapped across his collar.  “Always with the interruptions,” Devon complained to himself.  He straightened and fastened his gaze onto John.  “It appears we’re out of time,” he said.  “Which is good, in a way.  Dear old Alex has gotten tired of passing his boy around.  He’s just taken Sammy upstairs for some alone time.  I’d go take advantage of that if I were you.  Third floor, the last door in the hallway on the right.”

 

The demon shoved a disoriented Dean into John’s arms, causing John to curse and drop his gun as he attempted to prevent his son from crumpling to the floor.  By the time he could lunge for the knife sheathed at his ankle, Devon had vanished, a “good luck, Johnny-boy!” ringing in John’s ears.

 

“Goddammit!” John shouted, slamming his clenched fist down on the sink. _What the hell did he mean?_ he thought.   _Why would demons be interested in Sam?_  But he didn’t have time to ponder the question.  Dean was blinking disorientedly, swaying on his feet as he tried to get his bearings, and the final words from the demon were racketing around John’s brain.

 

“Dad?” Dean mumbled.  “Wha’ happened?”

 

Immediately, John was beside him, guiding him down to sit on the closed toilet seat.  “Just take a minute son,” John said gruffly.  “You took a pretty good hit there.”

 

Dean touched two fingers to the side of his head, grimacing.  “Devon.  Where’d he go?”

 

John hesitated for the briefest of instances.  He couldn’t tell Dean that demons were aiming to drag Sam into some fiendish plot of theirs.  Dean was operating under enough stress as it was.  Anything more might send him into a nervous breakdown, something they certainly could not afford.  “Dad?” Dean asked again.

 

“I chased him off,” John lied.  “I came in here looking for you, but he pushed you into me and managed to duck into the hallway.”

 

“That bastard!  Was he on fucking steroids?” Dean said.  He seemed to be feeling better, John noted wryly.  “What the hell is wrong with these people?  I can’t believe he tried to put the moves on me!”

 

John grasped his shoulder, cutting Dean’s indignant exclamations short.  “I know,” John said urgently, “but we gotta move.  I came to get you because Cheverill’s gone upstairs.  With Sam.”

 

The blood drained from Dean’s face.  He nodded curtly and stood, gritting his teeth against what must have been a major headache.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean grunted.  “Lead the way.”

 

They exited the bathroom and hurried down the hallway.  John kept a close eye on Dean, covertly checking for any signs of a concussion.  Thankfully, Dean seemed none the worse for wear after getting personal with Devon’s left hook.  Once they reached the more populated corridors, their progress slowed as they forced their way through the tightly packed crowd.  The party had been getting steadily rowdier as the champagne Cheverill had been so anxious over disappeared bottle by bottle.  They dodged around tangled masses of bodies, elbowing a path through the inebriation clogging the air.  At last, they battled their way back into the entrance hall where the front doors spilled out onto the darkened lawn.  Gesturing to Dean, John reached the staircase and began to climb.  The numbers of guests dwindled as they bypassed the second floor and continued up to the third.

 

On the landing, John slid his gun silently out of its holster.  Dean copied him, and together they crept down the hallway, footsteps noiseless on the hardwood floors.  At the end a pair of double doors waited, shining mahogany as they halted outside.  A muffled voice was audible from behind it, speaking in short, rough bursts.  John and Dean swapped glances, and John turned the knob.  It was locked.  Without ceremony, John put his foot to the door and it crashed open.  Dean charged into the room beside him.  As one they raised their guns.

 

A bank of windows, night rubbing sticky fingers across the glass.  A large bed in the center of the room, sheets thrown back and wrinkled.  An intricately carved wooden desk, papers stacked neatly in piles across its surface.  Paintings hung all along the walls, ink jewel bright and rich.  The flashes skipped across John’s vision, images bursting like strobe lights to resolve into a single picture.  

 

“Get the fuck away from him,” John ordered.

 

Cheverill froze.  The unmistakable clicking of two hammers drawing back stopped him in his tracks.  He stood framed by the stretch of windows, his expensive suit pants down around his knees.  His arms were bent, elbows hooked under Sam’s skinny thighs to keep Sam’s legs wrapped around his waist.  Sam himself (and John felt his trigger finger tremble when he laid eyes on the state of his youngest) was propped up with his back against the wall.  His leather shorts had been torn away, his chest heaving every time Cheverill drove up into him.

 

At John’s growl, Cheverill turned and straightened, not bothering to pull out of Sam as he did so.  He found himself face to face with the business ends of two guns pointed at his forehead.  His eyes narrowed as they settled first on John, then Dean.  

 

“I knew something was off about you two,” he said, a disconcerting lack of surprise in his voice.  “Who are you?”

 

Not the reaction John had been expecting.  “Shut up,” he said, just as Dean spat “take your hands off him.”

 

Cheverill’s mouth twisted maliciously.  “And if I don’t?” he asked.  His hips rocked abruptly forward and Sam let out a shocked squeak from behind his gag.  Both guns rose a little higher, only the fear of hitting Sam causing Dean and John to hold their fire.  Cheverill grinned.

 

“Get away from him, or we shoot,” John warned.  His gaze was trained on Cheverill, refusing to be drawn down to where the man was still buried inside of Sam.  A calm, icy adrenaline was washing through him.  John welcomed it, let it steady his hand and slow his breathing.  This was just another hunt, and Cheverill was just another sick monster to be put down.

 

Cheverill bared his teeth mockingly.  He seemed disturbingly unconcerned with the guns aimed at his skull.  “I don’t appreciate threats,” he said, attention switching from John to Dean and back.  “Especially not from intruders in my own home.  So what are you?  Private investigators?  FBI agents?”  He tightened his grip on Sam’s hips, fingers digging deep enough the bruise.  “Hunters?”

 

John faltered, taken aback.  He could sense Dean’s matching uncertainty beside him.

 

Cheverill looked triumphant.  “Hunters then,” he affirmed, his blue eyes clouding over in contempt.  “I should have known from the stench of blundering asininity that’s been lying around the place.”

 

John recovered quickly.  “You seem pretty cocky for a dead man,” he retorted.  “Either way, you must know you aren’t walking out of here.”

 

“Are you so sure?”  Cheverill scratched a hand down Sam’s back, leaving reddened welts behind, and laughed as Dean took an aborted step forward, lip curling in anger.  “Because I think that I am going to be walking out of here, and I think Samuel is coming with me.”  His hand reached the end of its path, red paint sticking under his nails like blood..  With only one arm to support him, Sam slipped sideways a fraction of an inch-

 

Two gunshots rent the air, sweeping through the room like the breaking of a massive wave.  John saw as if in slow motion as the first bullet slammed into the meat below Cheverill’s right shoulder.  The second tore through the base of Cheverill’s throat, ripping entirely through his neck and shattering the glass in the window behind him.  Cheverill teetered backwards, mouth contorting in astonishment, until he collapsed sideways with a thud.  Sam dropped bonelessly from his hold but Dean was already moving, diving for his brother and scooping him up before he could hit the ground.

 

“Sammy?  Sammy!  It’s okay bro, I’ve got you now, I’ve got you.  C’mon Sammy, look at me man, open your eyes.  It’s okay, Sammy.  Sammy?”  Dean babbled, clutching at Sam’s shoulders.  He carried him to the little couch and, just as careful as when he’d held Sam downstairs, laid his little brother on the couch.  An endless litany of soothing nonsense poured from him as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it across Sam’s naked waist.

 

Meanwhile, John padded softly to Cheverill’s side, heart wailing with the need to go to his sons, but he had to check first.  He stared down at Cheverill’s lax face, adrenaline morphing slowly into anger.  Cheverill’s eyes were closed.  Blood dripped steadily from his shoulder and the hole in his throat, spreading around the man in a crimson pool.  John lifted his gun again and sent a bullet into the man’s black heart.

 

“D’n?”  The quiet voice had John hurrying to the couch.  Sam was blinking hazily up from the cushions, gaze unfocused and confused.  Dean had pulled the gag from his mouth and thrown the fucking thing across the room.

 

“Sam,” Dean gasped, clasping Sam’s hand in his own.  “We’re here Sam.  We found you.”

 

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed.  “F’nd… me?” he slurred, obviously struggling to make sense of the words.  

 

Dean laughed, watery and thin.  “That’s right Sam,” he said.  “We found you.  That bastard’s never gonna touch you again.”

 

Sam’s eyelids fluttered and John wondered how much of the situation was actually sinking in.  Then Sam’s eyes drifted over to John, and John was shouldering in beside Dean before he could help himself.  “D’d?” Sam asked.

 

“I’m right here Sammy,” John promised, his lungs constricting painfully.  “We both are.  Not going anywhere, son.”

 

“Kay…” Sam mumbled.  His head sagged tiredly.

 

“Hey, hey, stay with us. Tiger,” Dean said, squeezing Sam’s palm.  “We got to get you out of here, right?”

 

“Can’t l’ve,” Sam rasped.  “Won’ l’t me.”

 

“He’s dead now Sam, he can’t hurt you anymore.  We gotta get out of here, okay?”

 

_“I don’t think so.”_

 

John and Dean leapt to their feet, drawing their forgotten guns and whirling to face the speaker.  John nearly dropped his gun when he realized who it was.

 

“I think you boys have overstayed your welcome,” Cheverill hissed.  He had one palm pressed against the wound over his heart, but his back was straight and he was impossibly, undeniably alive.  Blood bubbled from the hole in his neck as he spoke.

 

“You… you’re dead!” Dean breathed, slack jawed with shock. “How-?”

 

Cheverill let out a hysterical cackle, blood coating his teeth and spattering gruesomely on the floor around him.  “You think you can kill me, boy?” he shrieked, swaying drunkenly.  “I could squash you like a worm, easier than lifting my little finger!”

 

“What are you?” John demanded, shifting to place himself between Cheverill and Sam.

 

Cheverill threw back his head, roaring with laughter.  “Stupid little hunters,” he jeered.  “Always barrelling into what you don’t understand.”  He staggered forward, arms coming up and fingers clawing the air.   Neither John nor Dean hesitated.  They opened fire, bullets ripping through Cheverill’s legs, arms, torso.  

 

“No!” they heard over the rattle and whine of the continuing rounds.  “I can’t be beaten so easily, little hunters!  Samuel is mine, and I’ll enjoy making him watch as I rip you apart!”  Cheverill took another step, shoe skating off the streams of blood covering the floor.  For a terrifying moment, it seemed as though he might fling himself forward, heedless of his shredded skin and exposed muscle.  Then he gave a furious, earsplitting scream and fell back under the hail of bullets, blood misting in the air as he turned and hurled himself through the broken window.  John sprinted after him.  He leaned over the sill, jagged glass slicing his forearms, and swept his gun over the shadowy stretch of grass below.  He strained, but saw nothing.  Cheverill was gone.  John swore.

 

He returned to the couch, shaking his head at Dean’s questioning look, and knelt again beside Sam.  Lightly, he carded a hand through Sam’s sweaty hair, reassuring himself that his son was still there.

 

“D’d?” Sam said.  John met his foggy, hazel eyes, and the fear there was like a suckerpunch to the gut.  “Wh’re is’e?”

 

“He’s gone Sam,” John told him, brushing the bangs away from Sam’s face.  Dean dropped down next to them and picked Sam’s hand up, cradling it to his chest.

 

“We’ve got you,” Dean said, cheeks pale.  “It’s okay, Sam.  You’re safe.”   John bit his lip as Sam’s eyelids slid lower, wondering how true Dean’s last statement really was.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! I realize now that I have been severely neglecting to respond to comments. I am so sorry if I didn't reply to you! I feel like it's a bit late to start responding to old comments now, but if you leave a new one, I promise I will reply to it at once.
> 
> Extra warnings for gore and graphic violence in this chapter

John was pacing.  His feet made hollow thumps every time they struck the floor, a steady rhythm that didn’t falter, even as the sounds from the party ebbed beneath them.  It was his nervous tic, a habit he couldn’t break no matter what he tried.  It calmed him, made him feel as though he was doing something, like figuring out a way to get them out of this mess.  A mess that involved a powerful entity wanting to enslave his youngest son.  Then eviscerate his eldest.  Along with himself.  So a fine mess, in short.  Hence the pacing.

 

“Dad.”  Dean was kneeling beside Sam, watching the rise and fall of his little brother’s chest.  Two metal bars pierced each of Sam’s nipples, golden against Sam’s glittering skin.  The sight of them made John want to empty another clip into Cheverill’s brain.  “What the fuck was he?”

 

“I don’t know, Dean,” John said.  He pulled distractedly at his tie, looking frustrated as he tucked his gun back under his jacket.   “A resistance to bullets isn’t exactly rare.  Goddamn it, we came into this blind.  Like fucking amateurs.”  His hazel eyes were stormy.  

 

Dean stayed silent, holding Sam’s hand between his two and waiting for John to come to a decision.  Sam’s fingers were cold.  Unwarranted, the image of Cheverill’s long fingers wrapped around Sam’s hips flashed across Dean’s vision.  He swallowed hard, blinking to clear the picture out of his head and squeezed Sam’s palm between his hands.  Sam had been with Cheverill for over a week.  What kind of fucked up monster shit could Cheverill have done to him?  Apart from violating him in every way possible— Stop.  Dean took a deep, calming breath.  It didn’t work as well as he’d hoped.

 

“Alright,” John said at last.  “Our priority is to get Sam out of here safely.  That bastard wants him back — he made that pretty obvious — so first step is to get the hell out of dodge.  After that we can hole up, do some research, and figure out how to kill Cheverill.”  Dean nodded at the snap of authority in John’s voice.

 

“We need to find him some clothes,” Dean muttered.  He bent lower and gave Sam’s shoulder a light shake.  “Sammy? Hey, you with us?”

 

Sam’s eyelashes fluttered, the makeup outlining his eyes making them large and soft in the lamplight.  “D’n?”

 

“Yeah Sam, I’m right here.  Can you tell us where your clothes are?” _Good God, did Cheverill even give him clothes?_  “You’re gonna need more than my jacket little bro.”

 

Sam rolled his head to the side, his forehead scrunched in confusion.  “C...othes?”

 

“That’s right Sammy, clothes.  You gotta tell me where they are so we can get out of here, okay?”

 

“...Clos’t” Sam finally whispered, clenching his eyes shut.  “Inna clos’t.”  He lifted a trembling hand and pointed across the room.

 

Dean smiled and started to stand up.  “Alright, got it.  Don’t fall asleep on me now.  I’ll be back in two sec-”

 

He broke off as Sam latched onto the front of his shirt, his face constricted with sudden terror.  “Don’ go’n there D’n,” he gritted out.  His knuckles were cut and bruised, his grip on Dean’s hem bleaching them white.  “B’d place D’n, don’ go’n.”

 

“It’s okay Sam,” John said.  He leaned over and helped Dean to disentangle Sam’s fingers from his shirt.  “Dean will only be gone for a minute, then he’ll come right back.”

 

Sam sagged back into the pillows, exhausted from his effort yet shaking his head weakly from side to side.  “Ss d’rk in there,” he murmured.  John and Dean exchanged glances, and Dean headed for the closet, which didn’t look more sinister or dark than any other closet he’d been in.  He grabbed the first pair of pants he saw and hurried back to the couch.

 

“Can we get these off?” he asked, once they’d assisted Sam into the pants, which were slightly too wide for his skinny hips.  He lifted Sam’s wrist and tapped one silver cuff, grimacing.

 

John examined it.  “We’d better just leave them for now,” he told Dean regretfully.  “The locks have been soldered shut.  We’ll need time and tools to get them off, neither of which we have.”  He was right, of course.  “You get Sam, I’ll scout the hallway.”

 

“Wha’s happn’n,” Sam said blearily as Dean slid one arm under his knees and the other around his back.

 

“We’re getting out of here, Sammy,” Dean answered.  He settled Sam against his chest as John pulled out his gun and inched open the door to the hallway.

 

“C’nt leeve,” Sam slurred.  John whispered the all clear.

 

“Shh, Sammy, it’s okay,” Dean said, as John ducked out into the hallway on noiseless feet.

 

“No,” Sam said, raising his hand and pushing feebly at Dean’s collar.  “C’nt leeve.”

 

“Sam, you gotta be quiet.  Cheverill’s gone, remember?  He can’t hurt you.”

 

“No!” Sam insisted hysterically, twisting in Dean’s hold.  “Don’ make m’leeve.”  He beat his loose fist against Dean’s chest, panting with the little amount of strength it required.

 

John reappeared in the doorway and shot Dean a bemused look.  “What the hell is taking so long?” he hissed.  “Sam, calm down!”

 

“He just freaked out on me!” Dean said, now struggling to pin Sam’s wrists to his sides.  Sam flailed again, what sounded like a sob catching in his throat as he shoved at Dean’s arms.

 

John trapped Sam’s hands between his own.  “Sam, stop it, we’re trying to help you!” he barked.

 

A sick feeling swelled in Dean’s stomach as Sam flinched away, stilling abruptly.  His mouth clicked shut and he nodded jerkily before turning his head to hide his face in Dean’s shoulder.  Dean glared at John.

 

“Are you kidding me?” he growled lowly.

 

John’s face was stricken.  “Sammy, I didn’t mean-”  A burst of loud giggling from the floor below cut him off.  John’s back stiffened.  “We’ve gotta go,” he said.  “We’re running out of time.  Soon people are going to wonder where Cheverill is.”

 

Dean saluted tightly.  “‘M sorry Sam,” he muttered to his brother.  “Dad didn’t mean to yell.”  Sam shivered, and Dean felt Sam’s lips move against his neck.  He bent his head.  “What was that?”

 

“Pl’s don’ make m’leeve,” Sam croaked.  “H’rts.”

 

“He can’t hurt you anymore, Sammy,” Dean repeated reassuringly.  “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

 

He stuck his head around the doorjamb.  John was standing a few yards down the hallway, one hand on the inside of his jacket, resting on the butt of his gun.  Sounds of clinking glasses and laughter filtered up from the party in full swing below them, but the hallway was empty save themselves.

 

“We’ll head straight down the stairs,” John told him.  “The main doors are directly in front of the stairwell.  Hopefully everyone will be too drunk to realize that we’re carrying Sam and not some other kid.”  His lips thinned in disgust.

 

“Yes sir.”  Dean adjusted his hold on Sam and slipped out into the hallway.  

 

Sam’s breath hitched.  It was all the warning Dean got before Sam went rigid in his arms.  “Sam-?” Dean began, but his words were drowned out as Sam threw his head back and howled.  “Sam!” Dean shouted.  Sam jerked, hands bunching into fists and tendons straining.  His feet kicked uncontrollably and the whites of his eyes shone wax-like as they rolled back in their sockets.  “Sammy!” Dean yelled again.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” John asked, bellowing to be heard over the sound of Sam’s continued screams.

 

“I don’t know!” Dean said frantically.  He staggered, nearly dropping Sam as he thrashed.  The cords in Sam’s neck and arms were bulging as though ready to snap.  His voice broke on the next yell, his spine rigid and bowed upwards towards the ceiling.  Sam’s head bobbed to the side and Dean couldn’t help it; Sam went crashing to the floor as a jagged flash of pain stabbed through Dean’s shoulder and chest.  His vision blurred, and when it cleared he was on his knees, gasping through the aftershocks.

 

“Dean!” John shouted.  “What the hell?  Are you okay?  What happened?”

 

Dean ignored him, blinking away tears and reaching for Sam, who had stopped screaming and was lying sprawled on the floor, his mouth open as he choked for air.  

 

Heavy footsteps pounded up the staircase.  John whirled around, yanking out his gun as a man hurtled onto the landing.  The man pivoted, saw John’s gun, and whipped his own from the holster at his side.

 

“Who are you?” the man demanded.  Then he caught sight of Sam and the color drained from his cheeks.  “What are you doing?” he roared.  “You’re killing him!”  His gun lowered.  Before either John or Dean could react, the man had swept past both of them and slung Sam’s limp body over his shoulder.

 

“Hey!” Dean cried.  The man ignored him.  With one arm balancing Sam, he darted back into the bedroom, leaving John and Dean dumbfounded.  Red clouded Dean’s eyes.  He shook off the lingering pain and surged to his feet.  “Get back here,” he snarled.  He charged after the guy with John on his heels, intending (oh God, what if this man had hurt Sam too?) to shoot the bastard’s kneecaps out for daring even to _breathe_ on Sam, only to find upon entering the room that the man had laid his little brother down on the bed and was jamming his fingers into Sam’s neck in search of a pulse.

 

“C’mon, c’mon kid,” he said, pressing his fingers harder into Sam’s skin.  “Don’t quit on me now, goddammit.”  He shifted his hand to a different position, and after a moment the taut line of his shoulders relaxed by increments.  “Knew you were tougher than that,” he said, smiling in relief.  He straightened and turned — right into the muzzle of Dean’s gun.

 

“Hands up,” Dean said, as  evenly as he could manage.  The guy slowly lifted his hands, brown eyes never leaving Dean’s face.  The end of the gun mashed coldly against his forehead.  John appeared at Dean’s side and smoothly confiscated the man’s gun from its holster.

 

“Who are you?  Or should I be asking _what_ are you?”  John said, leveling his own gun at the man.  Seeing that John had the situation under control, Dean immediately shoved past him to check that Sam was alright. _It’s been twenty minutes, and someone’s already taken him away again_ , Dean thought, furious with himself, measuring Sam’s breathing and pulse, palpitating his arms, legs and chest.  Fussing like an overwrought hen, if he was being honest with himself.

 

The man remained calm.  “My name is Carter,” he said.  His gaze moved back to Dean.  “And I’m guessing that you’re Dean.”

 

John and Dean blinked, taken aback.

 

“Christo,” John said suddenly.  Both Dean and Carter raised an eyebrow at him, but Carter didn’t recoil in disgust and his eyes remained clear.

 

“I’m no demon,” Carter asserted dryly.  The kid just talks in his sleep sometimes.  Kept mentioning a ‘Dean’, so I assumed…”

 

Dean’s expression went blank and stony.  “Who are you?” he asked sourly.  “What, you just got your rocks off watching him sleep?  After Cheverill was done with him?  Maybe took a turn with him a time or two, huh?”  

 

“I would never touch a kid like that,” Carter snapped angrily.  “Christ, I work for Mr. Cheverill.  That doesn’t mean I agree with what he does.”

 

Dean sneered wordlessly, but stopped when John gave him a stern look.  “Dad, no way!” he began, recognizing the calculating glint in John’s eyes.  “You can’t be thinking we can _trust_ this-”

 

John cut him off.  “Do you know why Sam can’t leave this room?” he asked bluntly.

 

Carter nodded.

 

“You can’t think we can trust this guy!” Dean exploded.  

 

“Of course not,” John answered.  “But we’ve gotta move and, much as I don’t like it, we need him.”

 

“Just like that?” Dean was livid.  “We don’t know who this guy is, what he’s done!  What if he’s hurt Sam?”

 

“Enough.  We don’t have options, and even less time.”

 

“I want to help,” Carter interjected.  He met the disbelieving stares of the other two with stubborn obstinacy.  “I swear.  I’ve stood by long enough.  I can’t watch Cheverill torture these kids any longer.”

 

“Dad…”

 

“I don’t want to hear it Dean.”  John stuck out his hand for Carter to shake.  “For the record, I still don’t trust you,” he warned the other man.  “If you make one move I don’t like, I won’t hesitate to take you out.  I’m John.  This is my eldest, Dean.”

 

Carter grunted.  “I knew you had the look of a big brother,” he told Dean.

 

Dean scowled resentfully and didn’t reply.  Just because they were working with the guy didn’t mean they had to get all chummy.  Sure, he appeared earnest enough, but Dean wasn’t about to forget that he’d done nothing to save Sam and the other kids before the Winchesters had come along.

 

“Alright then,” John said briskly, all business.  “How do we get Sam out of here?  And after that, you can tell us exactly what sort of monster Cheverill is.”

 

Carter glanced to the side, taking in the conspicuous pool of blood and the broken window.  What bits of glass remained in the frame were spiked with droplets of red.  “You two are hunters, right?” he checked.  At John’s affirmative gesture, he continued, “well, in the simplest terms, Cheverill is a witch.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dean cut in.  “No witch I’ve ever seen can shrug off a bullet to the throat.”

 

“That’s why I said he’s a witch in _simple terms_ ,” Carter growled, irritated at the interruption.  “More accurately, I would call him a warlock.  A very old, very powerful warlock.  He’s layered so many protective and healing spells on himself over time that I’m not surprised your bullets didn’t make a dent.”

 

“How old are we talking here?” John asked.

 

Carter shrugged helplessly.  “I couldn’t say.  Warlocks are different than witches.  They don’t call on demons as their power source, for one.  Their energy comes from the Earth, which means their abilities are nearly unlimited if they have enough skill.  Cheverill is two hundred years old at least —  that’s how long I’ve been working for him anyway, but he was already ancient when I met him.”

 

Dean goggled at him.  The guy looked like he wasn’t a day over twenty five.  And that wasn’t even the worst of it!  Dean was unable to prevent the scorn from seeping into his tone as he asked “you’ve been watching this guy kidnap kids for _two hundred years_ and it only just occurred to you to try and stop it?”

 

Carter scowled, fidgeting uncomfortably and dropping his eyes.  “I had my reasons.”

 

“I hope they were pretty damn good ones then!” Dean bit out.  

 

“So how do we kill him then?” John said impatiently.  “There’s gotta be a way.”

 

The noises of party revelry filled the spaces between them as Carter chewed his lip.  At last, he blew out a breath and muttered something indistinguishable.

 

“What was that?”

 

“I don’t know, okay?”  Carter seemed to deflate from one instant to the next.  “I don’t know how to kill him,” he repeated heavily.  “Jesus, it’s not like enough people haven’t tried.  But nobody’s ever succeeded, obviously.  I suppose if you could inflict so much damage that his spells couldn’t heal him any longer, you might have a chance, but you’ve seen how powerful he is.  He’s practically invincible!  You might be able to find a way to counteract all the magic he’s cast on himself — the key word there being _might_ — but I have no idea how it could possibly be done.”

 

Dean felt his heart sink.  He gripped Sam’s wrist tightly, the delicate pulse thumping under his fingertips. _We won’t let him touch you Sammy,_ he thought determinedly. _Dad’s one of the best fucking hunters out there.  He’ll figure out a way to kill Cheverill, just you wait._  Sam’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t stir.  Dean nibbled on the inside of his cheek and swore to himself yet again that he would make Cheverill suffer for hurting his brother like this.  He didn’t think he’d ever forget Sam’s terrible screams after they’d carried him out of the room.

 

Meanwhile, John was pacing tersely, absorbing this new information.  Putting Cheverill down was becoming harder than either of them could have guessed.  The bastard had to have a weakness.  But they’d need research, weapons, and they couldn’t forget their main priority: getting Sam to safety.  So it was with an effort that John turned back to address Carter, for now placing his half-formed plans aside.  “Right then.  You never answered my first question.  Why can’t Sam leave this room?”

 

Carter had made his way over to the puddle of blood and was busy inspecting it.  He looked up when John spoke, a distracted frown pulling at his features, and pointed at the silver collar around Sam’s neck.  “You didn’t think those were just for show did you?”

 

Dean’s jaw clenched.  He bent to prod at Sammy’s left wrist, where the metal band was locked tight against Sam’s pale skin.  “So,  they’re like electrified or something?” he asked harshly, recalling the pain he’d felt when the collar had brushed against him.

 

“Of course not,” Carter said.  “Cheverill is a warlock, remember?  These aren’t ordinary cuffs.  They’ve been enchanted.”

 

“To what, electrocute him?!”  

 

“Basically.”  Carter’s voice was flat.  “Cheverill can control it through an external remote.  Whoever holds the remote controls the cuffs.”

 

“Fuck,” John swore.  “You mean we have to find the remote before we can get him out of here?”

 

Carter was eyeing the blood speculatively.  “...maybe not,” he replied finally.  “Cheverill always keeps the remote with him anyway.  But I think our best chance is to just break the spell completely.”  He paused, tugging at his lower lip.  After a few moments of silence, John lost his patience.  

 

“And we could do that how?” he prompted, annoyed.

 

“We’ve gotta do the counterspell.”  Carter dipped his finger into the grisly puddle.

 

“Which would involve…?” John demanded, temper fraying.  “Time is not exactly a luxury right now Carter!”

 

Carter twisted his head to glare at John over his shoulder.  “You know how many times I’ve seen this counterspell performed?  Once.  About one hundred and ninety years ago!  So excuse me for taking a minute to remember the steps to the damn thing!”  He stood up, blood smeared crimson over his hand.  “Bring him over here,” he ordered, gesturing to Sam.

 

John motioned to Dean, and Dean hefted Sam into his arms, Sam’s freakishly long legs dangling absurdly.

 

“Okay, here we go then,” Carter muttered to himself.  Dean laid Sam on the floor beside him and stepped back, hovering close by his brother’s head.  Not close enough however, to stop Carter from pulling out a small switchblade and cutting a narrow line across Sam’s palm.

 

“Fucking hell-!” he began, startling forward.  John’s restraining touch to his shoulder held him in place.

 

“I need both of their blood,” Carter explained.  “I’m not trying to hurt him, Christ!  Now shut up while I concentrate.”  Carter turned away, grumbling what sounded suspiciously like “overprotective idiot,” under his breath.

 

With Cheverill’s blood, Carter drew a large, spiky symbol on Sam’s chest.  Dean curled his lip — God, he hated witches and their spells.  They could keep their bodily fluids to themselves, thank you very much — but he kept his mouth closed as Carter traced more symbols along each cuff and the rim of the collar.  Then he pressed a thumbprint of Sam’s blood into the center of each cuff, chanting hesitantly in a phlegmy, unfamiliar language.  To Dean, it was vaguely reminiscent of french, but the words were sharper and harder, making his ears sting and his scalp bristle at the sudden hum of _wrong_ that filled the air.  As Carter placed the third and final thumbprint onto Sam’s collar, the hum became a whine.  For a moment, nothing else happened, but then the bloody symbols glowed an opaque white.  The whine crested into a shriek.  A second later the symbols were gone, melted away as though they had never existed.

 

John let go of Dean’s shoulder.  “Well?  Did it work?” he asked.

 

Carter nodded, seeming slightly pleased with himself.

 

“Why’s the collar still on him then?” Dean said.  The sight of it against Sam’s throat, so obviously a mark of ownership, made him feel nauseous.

 

“I’ve only lifted the curse,” Carter answered, “not removed the soldering.  Getting them off completely will have to wait.”

 

“He’s right,” John said.  “It’s a miracle no one’s raised the alarm yet.  We need to get the hell out of here before someone figures out their host has gone AWOL.  And thank you,” he said grudgingly to Carter.  “We won’t forget this.”

 

Carter ducked his head, and Dean could’ve sworn he saw the man blush lightly.  “I should’a done it a long time ago,” he confessed.  “C’mon.  There’s an old servant’s stairwell that leads down to the gardens.  We can take it to avoid running into anyone that might recognize Samue- ah, Sam.”

 

They stole out of the bedroom, Dean once again volunteering to carry Sam.  He tensed as they stepped into the hall, but whatever ritual Carter had performed appeared to have worked; Sam didn’t jolt awake to scream bloody murder, and when Dean brushed at the cuffs he felt only warm metal meet his fingertips.  About halfway down the hallway, Carter swept aside a long cloth hanging, revealing a squat door set into the wall.  He unlocked it swiftly and beckoned them through into the darkness.  John produced his flashlight from an inside pocket of his suit jacket and led their little group down the spiralling staircase, their footsteps rebounding obtrusively into the hush that had fallen.  Dean secured his grip on his brother, reassuring himself with Sam’s solid weight.

 

The passage spat them out onto a stretch of frost-bitten, shadowy grass.  To Dean’s right, he could see brightly lit squares thrown lengthwise across the lawn.  They must have been just around the corner from the large, main hall where they’d first found Cheverill.  It was quieter out here, where the only noise was the crackling of ice-limmed grass underfoot.  Wisps of clouds were drifting in amongst the stars.  The night was crisp with the scent of snow.

 

“This way,” Carter was saying.  “We need to get into the forest.”

 

“What the hell for?” John hissed.  “Let’s just make a run for the car!”

 

“You don’t think that people are going to miss the fact that we’re kidnapping him?” Carter argued, pointing at Sam.  “Cheverill’s made sure that everyone here has seen his face!  Someone would catch us, and then Cheverill’s security would gun us down in seconds!”  He jerked his chin towards the line of trees.  “There’s a maintenance road that cuts through the forest.  If we hide in there, you can get your car and meet us without anyone knowing.”

 

John’s eyes narrowed.  “If you think that I’ll leave you alone with my sons…”

 

Carter sighed.  “Look, we can discuss it later.  For now, let’s just get out of the open.  Then we can fight about my trustworthiness.”

 

“Fine,” John agreed reluctantly.  “Dean, you okay?  Do you need me to carry him for awhile?”

 

“I’ve got him.”  Well, his arms were a little tired, but no way was Dean gonna hand Sam over.  So what if he was feeling a bit clingy.  He’d fucking earned the right.

 

He trotted after his father, letting Carter take the rear.  They wound through beds of dying, brittle flowers, the black woods growing steadily closer.  Dean could hear the splashing of a fountain somewhere off in the depths of the lawn.  John’s tiny flashlight beam was a pinprick in the darkness, bobbing unsteadily among the browning petals that littered the ground.  Dean kept his gaze focused downwards, fixed on John’s shoes, so when John jolted to a sudden halt, Dean nearly crashed right into his father’s broad back.

 

“Dad, what?”

 

“Shhh.” John shushed him just as Carter came to a stop behind them.  A low murmur of conversation drifted over the rotting flower beds.  Too late, John shut off his flashlight.

 

“Who’s there?”  A figure appeared without warning on the path to their left.  A second, smaller figure followed the first, giggling and stumbling in their attempt to keep up.

 

“Andrew!” the smaller shape tittered.  Her voice was high and wobbly.  “Wait for me, you tease!”

 

“Oh, hello!”  Andrew had come closer, close enough for Dean to make out the outline of a thick gut and rounded cheeks.  It was the same man they’d met briefly the other night at the underground club.  Just their fucking luck.  Andrew was busy squinting in their direction, and Dean could see the exact instant that recognition hit him.  “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise!” he boomed, as his companion caught up and wasted no time in tucking herself underneath his fleshy shoulder.  “Mr. Ross and Mr. Elliot, I was wondering if I would run into you two tonight.”

 

“Hello Andrew,” John said stiffly.  “Um, it’s good to see you again too.”

 

Dean shifted so that Sam’s face was resting against his chest, doing his best to block Sam’s body with his own.  Christ, what if Andrew caught a glimpse of Sam?  It was dark, only the far-off lights from the house reaching them across the grass, but still bright enough to discern one another’s features.  If Andrew saw Sam, would he be able to identify him as the same boy Cheverill had been showing off?

 

“I was just taking a midnight stroll with my lovely acquaintance here,” Andrew explained.  The woman waved shyly at them, plastering herself against Andrew’s side.  Andrew lifted an eyebrow and gestured towards what he could see of Sam.  “And you four are off to find a bit more… privacy?” he guessed.  “Surely you’re not leaving the party so soon.”

 

“Actually yes,” John said, jumping on the provided excuse.  “Our new friend here thought that it might be better if we went back to his house for our, uh, activities.”

 

Carter nodded earnestly from Dean’s shoulder.

 

Andrew raked his gaze over the parts of Sam that Dean couldn’t shield from view.  “I can see why,” he said.  “You’ve got a very special one there.  I’d take good care of him if I were you.”  He stared back towards Cheverill’s estate, a strange smile on his lips.  “I have a feeling that the party is going to get a little rowdy soon anyway.  Maybe it’s for the best that you were on your way.”

 

Dean almost missed John’s surprised intake of breath, but it was impossible to mistake the way he tensed, the muscles in his neck bulging.  “Yes,” John choked.  “Maybe it is.”

 

“Goodnight then.  I’m sure I’ll be running into you again soon.”  Andrew tipped his hat to them and strode past with a wink, his lady friend still ensconced under his arm.  John watched them until they had been swallowed by the shadows and the silhouettes of dying rose bushes.  

 

“Dad, what the hell?  Are you alright?” Dean whispered.  If his hands had been free, he would’ve been tempted to snap his fingers under John’s nose.  John started at the question.

 

“Yeah, no, nothing,” he said in a faraway tone.  “I— it’s nothing.  Let’s go.”  He shook himself, lines of purpose settling back around him, and marched off without another word.  Dean sensed Carter open his mouth in bemusement, but Dean was just as clueless.  He hastened after his father before Carter could formulate a comment.

 

They left the gardens without further incident and plunged gratefully into the cover of the welcoming trees.  The ground was carpeted with damp leaves that muffled their footsteps and filled Dean’s nose with the smell of decomposition.

 

“Head left,” Carter said in a low voice, after they had moved deep enough into the woods that the glow and bustle of the party had faded away.  John corrected their course and they pushed farther into the undergrowth, with only the sound of swishing leaves accompanying them.

 

A couple of minutes later, their little group had rounded a particularly dense clump of trees and emerged onto a rough, unpaved road, which sliced cleanly through the trees.  It was poorly maintained, clogged with ruts and thick weeds, bending off towards the mansion in a shallow arc.

 

“This is the service road,” Carter told them.  “It wraps all the way around the property.”

 

John dipped his chin.  “We’ll be able to drive out on this?”

 

“It meets up with the driveway if you just follow it that way.”  Carter gestured to their right, where the road wound its way farther into the trees.  “You’ll have to go left to get your car and drive it back here.”

 

John didn’t look thrilled with the plan.  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”  He glanced worriedly over at Sam and Dean.

 

Carter didn’t throw up his hands, but it seemed like a damn near thing.  “I’ve gotten you this far, haven’t I?” he snapped.  “I could have fucked you over any number of times.  I’m not about to turn on you now.”

 

“One night of kind-heartedness doesn’t erase the fact that you spent two hundred years working for a child molester!”  John’s lips were drawn back in contempt.  “Dean, I’m taking Sammy.  You go get the Impala and bring it back here.”

 

“No way!” Dean burst out.  

 

Carter overrode him.  “You really think that’s a better idea?” he growled irately.  “Even if he was willing to leave his brother — and judging by his reaction that’s pretty unlikely — you’d rather send him back to the house _alone_ than leave him with me?  I’m trying to help you here, dammit, just trust me!”

 

John met his glare with one of his own, gnawing furiously on the inside of his cheek.  Unbidden, Devon’s words were echoing from the corners of his mind: _“After you get dear Sammy out, we’ve got orders to have some fun and raze this place to the ground.”_  And then Andrew just now in the gardens: _“I have a feeling this party is going to get a little rowdy soon anyway.”_  Fucking demons.  What if they’d already started?  He couldn’t send Dean into a possible massacre.  But they also needed the damn car… John was stuck.

 

“Alright,” he bit out sharply.  “Dean, you keep your gun at the ready at all times, you hear me?  If he so much as twitches funny you don’t hesitate.  I’ll be back in fifteen minutes tops.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

John threw Carter one last suspicious glower, then stalked off down the road.  Within seconds, he had disappeared into the curdling shadows.  The crunch of his footsteps on the gravel dwindled away soon after.

 

Dean shifted nervously.  Sam’s dead weight was heavier now than it had been ten minutes ago, and his arms were starting to burn.  That was another concern: Sam’s dead weight.  He was showing no signs of waking up, and Dean was starting to worry.

 

“So,” he said awkwardly.  Carter, standing a few feet off, cut his eyes over to Dean before returning his gaze to the dusky trees.  Undeterred, Dean continued, “these bracelets then.  You’re sure Sam’s okay?”

 

Carter looked at him again, directly this time, and seemed to soften as he sized Dean up.  “Yeah, he should be fine,” he replied.  “It’s probably more the drugs than anything that are keeping him out.”

 

“Oh.”  

 

Dean digested that.  After a moment, Carter crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest trunk.  “You can relax for a minute, you know,” he said.  When Dean stiffened, he put up his hands in a placating gesture.  “It’s just a suggestion.  Your brother isn’t exactly small.”

 

Dean chewed on the inside of his lip.  Sam _was_ getting pretty big, the freakin’ sasquatch, even with all the pounds he’d lost.  Cautiously, Dean lowered himself to the ground and propped his back against the tree behind him.  Sam stayed cradled in his lap, and his gun remained firmly in his hand the entire time.

 

Silence stretched between them.  The remaining leaves clinging to their branches hung lifelessly in the absence of a breeze.  Dean’s breath misted in the frigid air, making little glittering clouds that evaporated as soon as they formed.  He scanned the trees, searching for movement.  Nothing.  For a split second, he could’ve sworn he saw a flash of ashen hair, a flicker of a nearly translucent hand, but as he peered into the darkness and saw nothing, he dismissed it.  The shadows were playing tricks with him.  It was damned cold though.  

 

“So,” Dean repeated, disliking the quiet and seeking to break it.  “Two hundred years huh?  You’re looking pretty good for a great-great-great-grandfather.”

 

Carter grunted noncommittally.  

 

“Hey, there’s not many guys who can say they lived through the American Revolution is all I’m saying.”

 

Carter twitched, trying to hide a small smile.  “Almost kid,” he said.  “I was born in 1804.  The Revolutionary War was already over by then.”

 

“You aren’t kidding!” Dean exclaimed, taken aback.  He forced himself not to stare.  Carter was so… blunt about it.  He’d known the guy was old, but it was strange to think of what that actually implied.  “Did you fight in the Civil War?”

 

Carter coughed out a laugh.  “No, I’m afraid not.  I was in Spain at the time.”

 

“With Cheverill?”

 

The grin slipped off Carter’s face.  “Yes,” he said soberly.  “With Cheverill.”

 

A spur of bark was digging into Dean’s shoulder blade.  He fidgeted, scooting to the side before speaking again.  “I don’t get you,” he said.  “You spend two hundred years working for this guy, and now suddenly you decide you’ve had enough?”

 

Carter was silent, a dark silhouette against a formless background.

 

“I mean, why now?” Dean asked, anger beginning to color his voice.  “Obviously the guy is loaded!  He brings you all around the world with him, makes you fucking immortal, those are some serious perks, yeah?  All you have to do is keep some kids under control!”  Dean was breathing hard, his arms cinching around Sam’s shoulders.  “So why’s it now you decide to throw that all away, huh?”

 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Carter said coldly.  “You don’t get to judge me or my choices.”

 

Dean laughed humorlessly.  “Like your choice to help an ancient, pedophilic warlock?  You don’t really have a high horse to stand on buddy.”

 

Carter scowled out in the direction of the mansion, his jaw clenched.  “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

 

“I understand plenty,” Dean snapped bitterly.  “I understand that you watched that sick bastard rape my brother and didn’t do a thing to stop it. I understand that you would’ve let him kill Sam if we hadn’t shown up, and you wouldn’t have helped the kid that came after either!  How many times have you cleaned up after him?  How many fucking kids have you helped bury ‘cause you were too busy being a self-serving coward-”

 

He cut himself off when he saw Carter’s expression, half-expecting the other man to throw a punch at Dean’s face.  What he certainly _wasn’t_ expecting was for Carter to shuck off his suit jacket and roll up the cuffs of his white undershirt.  “Look,” Carter ordered, shoving his wrists under Dean’s nose.

 

Reeling from the abrupt invasion of space, Dean had to blink several times before he could convince his eyes to focus.  He peered at Carter’s wrists in the silver moonlight, and could barely make out faint lines of raised scars etched into the skin.  He squinted.  Slowly, the random squiggles shaped themselves into thin rows of spiky, jagged runes that wrapped around each of Carter’s wrists.

 

“What-” Dean started, and stopped as the  realization sank in.  His stomach churned as he looked at the manacles around Sam’s wrists, then at the scars on Carter’s.  “You… He… _Jesus_ ,” he gasped, intelligent sentences deserting him.

 

Carter pushed his sleeves back down and shrugged into his jacket, avoiding Dean’s incredulous eyes.

 

“But, you...  How old were you when Cheverill bought you?  He just, what, figured you’d be good muscle when he finished with you?  And you never tried to escape after all this time?  That’s why you said that!”  Dean interrupted his own flow of questions.  He felt like he’d just been hit in the stomach with a lead pipe.  “You said you’d only seen that counterspell performed once, one hundred and ninety years ago…  That’s because it was performed on you, wasn’t it?”  His mind reeled at the implications.  “Which means…  Sam will have the same scars, won’t he?”

 

“I don’t know,” Carter said sadly.  “I wore those cuffs for much longer than he did.”

 

“How… how can you still work for him?” Dean burst out.

 

“Not without many, many regrets,” Carter replied.  “The cuffs were taken off, but the fear never went away.”  His brow cast deep shadows over his eyes, making the sockets look empty and blind.  “You called me a coward, and you’re not wrong.”  He bent his head, and in the scant moonlight he seemed… old.  Weary and beaten down, exhaustion in every muscle.

 

“I-”

 

“You want to know why I helped you?  It’s because of him,” Carter bulled on.  He waved a hand at Sam.  “I could never be as strong as your brother, Dean.”  Despite the situation, the fear and anxiety and pity for the man in front of him, Dean couldn’t stop the fierce burst of pride that blossomed in his chest at the words.  “I’d been with Cheverill for so long, I’d forgotten how to care.  Some of the kids Cheverill found would fight at first, but they always gave up, in the end.  But I’ve never seen anyone fight as hard as Sam.”  Carter shook his head wryly.

 

“That’s Sam for you,” Dean grinned, but his throat felt clogged, his voice husky and wet.  He swallowed painfully, shakily, and he had to wrestle his next question from his uncooperative tongue.  “How bad was it?  What did Cheverill do to him?”

 

Carter hesitated, opening his mouth to answer but unable to find the words.  Dean closed his eyes.  “How’m I gonna fix this?” he asked raggedly.  “What happened to him, I can’t even…  I don’t know how to fix it.”  His skin felt too small.  He tilted his head back and blinked furiously, the stars and the branches above him blurring like wet paint running together.

 

Carter didn’t respond.  After several unsteady breaths, Dean looked back at him, composure restored.  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.  “I just — I don’t really have any clue what I’m dealing with, you know?  I can gank any monster that’s trying to hurt him, I can stitch up any cut and set a broken bone, but this?”  His shoulders rose and fell helplessly.

 

There was an awkward pause.  Clouds scudded across the sky, transient phantoms blown on unreachable winds.

 

“When he first came here,” Carter started, eyes distant with the memory, “he made a break for it.  Barely even set foot on the property before he’d knocked out my co worker and ran for the woods.  He’d have made it too if I hadn’t — well, if I hadn’t caught him.  But I figured, after some time, he’d lose the bravado and accept what was coming, like every other kid.”  Dead leaves crackled under Carter’s bulk as he glanced over at Dean.  “He proved me wrong.  Never did get a sentence out of that kid without some variation of ‘go to hell’.  I remember, one day Sam had requested some Indian dish for lunch, full of peppers and spices and whatnot.  I didn’t think anything of it, until Cheverill came storming back downstairs later that night —” Carter broke off, trying to stifle his chuckles.  “It was a sight, for sure!  Cheverill went to use his mouthwash and nearly scorched his tongue off.  Sam had stuffed the bottle full of pepper extracts.  Apparently they don’t mix well with mint.”

 

Dean hid his smile in Sam’s overlong hair.

 

“My point is,” Carter went on, “don’t underestimate your brother.  He’ll get past this.”

 

A twig broke loudly.  “Well, wasn’t that such an _uplifting_ anecdote?”

 

There was no time to react.  Dean had hardly begun to raise his gun when he felt the weapon ripped from his grasp by invisible fingers.  Carter was thrown backwards in the same instant, his shout of surprise cut short as he impacted heavily with the nearest tree and crumpled at its base.  Dean strained to stand, to reach for his knife, anything, but a cold, unnatural power locked his muscles in place.

 

Cheverill glided out into the open.  “Hello, _Dean,_ ” he spat, curling his lips and tongue around the name like its edges cut at his teeth.  He looked nothing as he had earlier, sleek and calm, arrogant as he presided over the great hall and the people gathered inside.  The fitted suit he wore was tattered with bullet holes, blots of blood staining the white undershirt.  His hair was no longer slicked back against his skull.  It curled damply over his forehead, sticking out in little clumps around his ears and down to the collar of his jacket.  Dean stared at him, stared at the smooth, unmarked, skin.  There were no wounds to indicate that Cheverill had been riddled with bullets less than an hour ago.  A surge of blinding, mind-numbing hatred welled up inside him, so strong it would have knocked him off his feet had he been free to move.  He couldn’t so much as twitch as Cheverill stalked closer, his insane, blue gaze fixed on Sam.

 

“Hunters,” he hissed, and Dean could see flecks of old blood staining his teeth as his mouth curled with rage.  “Did you really think I’d let you take him from me?  How far did you think you could get before I came to reclaim him?”

 

“He’s not yours,” Dean pushed out, through lips that fought his every command.  Cheverill’s power vibrated through the air around him like the concussion of a gigantic drum, and Dean felt a giant fist wrap itself around his throat and squeeze.

 

“Samuel is _mine,_ ” Cheverill said, voice resounding with fury and magic.  “How can you expect to save him when you can’t even save yourself?”

 

The pressure on Dean’s windpipe increased until he was choking with the need to breathe, struggling against Cheverill’s will.  Black dots scuttled across his vision.  Dean wanted to scream, to fight because Sam was _right there_ , laying oblivious in his lap and Dean couldn’t even protect him for one goddamn hour.  His chest ached, his tongue was swollen and heavy in his mouth, and he knew his lips were turning purple from lack of oxygen.  His consciousness wavered.  The dots throbbed, blocking out the stars and Cheverill’s sneering face.

 

A gunshot cracked through the clearing and Cheverill stumbled, a bloody bullethole punched through his temple.  Dean fell backwards, gasping air into his abused lungs, his body again under his own control.  His arms wrapped automatically around Sam’s ribs to pull his little brother onto the ground where Dean could crouch defensively in front of him.

 

“You insubordinate wretch!”

 

Dean’s sight teetered dangerously as he looked up.  Carter was standing — sagging really — underneath the tree against which he had been thrown.  His smoking gun was held tightly in his shaking fingers.  On the other side of the road, Cheverill was straightening, the neat hole in his temple already sealing over.  He appeared to have temporarily forgotten about Sam and Dean.  The heat of his anger made the earth tremble.

 

“You’ve forgotten your place yet again, Carter,” he said.  Carter flinched involuntarily but kept his gun trained and ready.

 

“Guess so,” he agreed.

 

“After all I’ve done for you-” Cheverill began.  Blood bloomed below his collar before he could finish, cutting him off and making him trip backwards a step.

 

“Shut up,” Carter snarled.  “All you’ve done for me was to enslave me once you got bored with screwing me.”

 

Cheverill recovered quickly, prodding at the new hole ripped into his shirt and flicking away the blood that clung to his skin.  “You always were a sniveling bitch,” he growled.  He waved his arm and Carter’s gun was wrenched out of his hands.  It hung in the air, motionless, until Cheverill made a fist and it crumpled into a twisted mass of metal.  “I’m thoroughly tired of your constant rebellion,” Cheverill said.  “And it is evident that punishing you yields no results.  Perhaps you have outlived your utility.”

 

“Fuck you.”  Weaponless, Carter retreated, his eyes blazing.  Dean felt a stab of admiration.  Carter had more balls than he’d figured.

 

But bravery couldn’t defend against magic.  A low, nearly inaudible hum was filling the air and making Dean’s eardrums rattle.  He shoved himself to his feet as the power built, a strange, unnatural light sparking from the tips of Cheverill’s fingers.  “Hey!” Dean bellowed.  He scooped up his own gun and fired off a shot, the bullet grazing Cheverill’s side.  His aim was off, but he did succeed in interrupting Cheverill’s concentration.  The hum halted abruptly and the light flickered out of existence.

 

Cheverill turned to Dean, almost snorting hellfire and frustration.  “I will deal with you in a second, boy,” he said.  “Wait your turn.”  He gestured, and Dean’s feet left the ground.  He collided hard with the tree he’d been leaning against, his head smashing into the trunk with a sickening crack.

 

He dropped to the forest floor, dazed, stars making swirling designs in front of him.  His ears were ringing loudly, but all he could think was _get to Sam,_ because Sam was passed out with nobody between him and Cheverill.  But his legs didn’t seem to want to move.

 

“You know Carter,” Dean heard dimly.  “At least this boy has some grit.  Perhaps I’ll make him your replacement?”

 

The hum had returned, growing stronger and stronger with every passing moment.  Though it felt four times its normal weight, Dean dragged his head up, squinting at the wavering images of Carter and Cheverill.  Crackling light blinded him for an instant, and he shielded his watering eyes as the energy crested, a fork of iridescent lightning spearing Carter through the chest.

 

“No!” Dean shouted.  He thought he did, anyway.  The flare of power was so bright that he had to duck and bury his face with his shoulder.  There was a heavy thud, as of a body hitting the ground.

 

Feet crunched over gravel.  “What a waste,” Cheverill said icily.  Dean jerked up, screaming at himself to move already.  Too late.  A fist gripped his short hair and yanked his head back, until he was on all fours with Cheverill’s leering face looming over him.

 

“How about it, Dean?” Cheverill asked.  His free hand stroked a line down Dean’s cheek, and Dean felt his skin blister at the touch.  “I believe I need a new assistant, and I think you’d make the perfect candidate.  Of course, retaining your free will is out of the question.”  He grimaced, glancing back at Carter’s prone form.  “I won’t be making that mistake again.  But I’ll allow you some awareness, so that you can watch as I reduce Samuel to a broken husk.”  He grinned insanely, power building once again as he lifted his hand to press his fingers to Dean’s forehead.  Dean flung himself against Cheverill’s hold, desperate and terrified but he couldn’t get _away_ —

 

The temperature plummeted.  A rustling, as of whispers too low to decipher, rose all around them.  Cheverill released him with a sharp cry.  “You… No!” he said.

 

Dean scrambled backwards, panting harshly, goggling at the skinny, blond haired kid that had appeared out of nowhere at Cheverill’s side.  His lips were thin, the delicate cheekbones pushing through the stretched skin of his face as though trying to slice through and escape.  His eyes were dark and bruised.  Tormented.

 

Dean sucked in a freezing breath as the ghost turned slowly to look at Cheverill, full of cold, implacable hatred.  Wind whipped through the trees.  The smell of frost and death permeated the air.  And then more boys were taking shape all around them, all young and pretty and thirsting for revenge.  There must have been forty or more, closing ranks in a large circle with Cheverill at its center.

 

“You cannot harm me,” Cheverill spat, drawing himself up imperiously and glaring around at the gathered ghosts.  “I owned you in life.  That does not change in death.”

 

A sigh swept around the circle, like the sound of water bubbling over rocks.  Then the blond kid opened his mouth and let out a moaning, bone-chilling wail that vibrated down to Dean’s core.  The crowd of ghosts rippled, and Dean barely managed to hurl himself to the side before they charged inwards.  Cheverill vanished behind a wall of writhing color.

 

There was a long, agonized scream.  Dean clapped his hands over his ears and pressed his forehead to the dirt as hot blood peppered the ground all around him.  The roaring of the ghosts rose higher, lasting for seconds or minutes or anywhere in between.  It was impossible to tell.

 

The screams cut off with a gurgle.

 

Carefully, Dean uncovered his head and peeked at the spot where Cheverill had been standing.  The ghosts were gone.  All but the first, who bent his neck to scrutinize Dean with his sad, haunted eyes.  The ghost nodded to him.  Something like satisfaction — peace? — made his lips quirk in an almost smile.  A final breeze blew through the clearing and when it died, the ghost had dissipated in a halo of golden radiance.

 

Dean staggered to his feet and surveyed what was left of Cheverill.  The witch was unrecognizable.  His eyes had been gouged out, his lips torn clean off.  Dean could see jagged bone and brain where the skull had been caved in.  Cheverill’s chest had been laid open and gouges through his stomach spilled pink intestines onto the gravel.  Between his legs, there was nothing but bloody stumps.

 

Dean leaned over and threw up into the bushes lining the road.

 

Even with all his magic, Cheverill wasn’t coming back from this.

 

Sam was still lying a couple yards off.  He hadn’t stirred throughout the entire ordeal, and Dean shuffled over to him.  He placed two fingers to Sam’s neck and felt the pulse there, thready but constant, a tangible reassurance.  

 

A throaty purr rumbled from farther down the road and the headlights of the Impala swung into view.  She screeched to a stop beside Dean.  John leapt out, guns drawn, scanning the clearing for any threat as he saw Carter down and Dean hunching over Sam.

 

“Dad,” Dean rasped.  “It’s okay.  He’s dead.”  He swallowed and pointed to Cheverill’s corpse.

 

“What happened?” John barked.  “Dean, what happened!”  When Dean didn’t respond at once, John leaned over and gave him a solid shake.

 

“I think Carter is dead,” Dean said distantly, not answering the question.

 

John rocked back onto his heels, cursing.  “Get Sam to the car,” he ordered.  “Then grab me some salt and accelerant from the trunk.” _Concussion,_ he thought, as Dean blinked sluggishly at him. _Probably shock too_.  He repeated his instructions, louder this time, and Dean finally seemed to register them.  He gathered Sam to his chest and began the slow walk to the Impala.

 

John approached Carter, who was lying on his back just to the side of the road.  When he got close enough, John could see the uneven hole burned through Carter’s torso, just underneath the ribs.

 

“J...ohn.”

 

John froze in astonishment.  “Carter?” he said, kneeling beside the other man.

 

Carter’s eyes were dull with pain.  Whatever energy that Cheverill had struck him with had cauterized the wound, but John could already tell without further examination that Carter didn’t have long.  Whether it was the injury or the magic that had inflicted it, blood was spotting Carter’s lips and an ominous, liquid sucking sound was audible with each inhalation.

 

“Are.  They. Okay?” Carter gritted out, enunciating every word around the blood filling his mouth.

 

“Yeah,” John told him.  “They’re both fine.  I don’t know how, but Cheverill’s dead.  For good.”

 

Carter’s eyelids fluttered.  His skin was turning blue.  “M’sorry,” he choked.  “Sorry I didn’... help sooner.”

 

John reached down and gripped Carter’s lax hand with his own.  “I can never thank you enough, he said fiercely.  “It’s because of you that I have my son back.”

 

The stars were bright and clear in the gaps between the branches.  They reflected in Carter’s eyes as he smiled, blood running from the corner of his mouth.  “Not… not a bad pl’ce… to die.”  One last breath rattled in his lungs, evaporating into the autumn night.  Carter’s hand went slack in John’s grip.

 

“Dad?”  Dean’s voice came from behind him.

 

John placed Carter’s hand gently at his side and stood, turning to accept the salt and gasoline that Dean held out.  Dean took one look at Carter’s body and began to shiver.  He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it.  “Hey,” John said, his tone soft.  “I need you to go wait in the car for me, okay Dean?”

 

Dean didn’t respond.

 

“Dean,” John said, more forcefully.  “I need you to go to the car and check on Sam.”  It worked, as John knew that it would.  Dean started a little, giving him a short nod and heading back to the car.  John felt a little bad, manipulating Dean like that, but it was necessary.  Dean was clearly stunned by whatever the hell had happened.  John would let Dean recover, but after that they were sitting down and Dean would tell him exactly how Cheverill had died.  John wasn’t going to be so reluctant to press for details the second time around.

 

For now though, it could wait.  John worked fast to dump both the salt and accelerant over Cheverill’s mangled body.  He treated Carter to the same, just to be safe, and tossed a flaming match onto each of them.  The fire caught within seconds.  John didn’t stay to watch.  With both his sons in the backseat, he gunned the Impala and drove.  The dancing firelight was soon blocked by the thickening trees.

 


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The end of the story at last. Thank you everyone who read this, left kudos, and commented. You all are wonderful! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.

Morning shifts sucked, there was no way around it.  The barely-visible dawn was illuminating the skyline of Milwaukee in dusky orange, and cheerful birdsong was beginning to gather strength in the few trees planted along the sidewalks lining the road.  At first, Jessica hadn’t minded when Carlos had asked her to pick up his shifts at the clinic that week — four days waking up at five-fucking-o’clock, no problem, right — but now that it was Saturday, her last day of double shifts, the novelty of the sunrise was down to zero.

The clinic was a small building, tucked away between an abandoned office complex and a rundown flower shop.  The complex was a breeding ground for crack addicts, and Jessica was positive that the flower shop was a mafia safehouse, but the rent was dirt cheap.  Gotta take what you can get in this economy, Jessica supposed.  She dug into her pocket for the clinic keys, cursing to herself as she bobbled both the keys and her sack lunch, all while trying to balance her jumbo-sized (it was a perfectly reasonable size, thank you Starbucks) mug of coffee in the crook of her elbow.  “Dammit,” she cursed, wrestling the door open.  Ha.  And Carlos said she couldn’t function in the morning.

She dumped her lunch but took her mug with her as she moved through the clinic, leaving the front room dark for now.  The clinic wouldn’t open until eight.  Before then, Jessica needed to catalogue their inventory and check the few machines that they had were up and running.  She gulped at her coffee.  Fucking morning shift.  The damn machines had all been working fine yesterday, hadn’t they?  Carlos was an anal bastard.

She padded down the hallway, sneakers noiseless against the tiled floor, yawning into her palm.  She reached the apothecary and nudged the open (and that was strange, hadn’t she closed it yesterday before leaving?) door with a toe, fumbling for the lightswitch.  The overhead strips sputtered to life.  “The fuck?” Jessica said dumbly.  There was a junkie rifling through the stacks of drawers.  He jumped as the lights flipped on and spun to face her, drawing a gun from underneath his suit jacket.

For maybe five seconds they gawked at each other, too stunned to react.  The guy — and what kind of junkie wore a suit when they were going on a drug run? — looked absolutely wrecked.  His dark hair was knotted and his eyes were bloodshot.  Tired shadows rode high on his cheekbones, and there was a swollen bruise marring the left side of his jaw, as though he’d recently been punched.  

 Then the man’s hands lifted, which meant his gun was lifting _towards her forehead_ , so Jessica went with her first instinct and threw her mug of coffee at the guy’s nose.  

“Fuck!” the junkie shouted.  Hot coffee splashed across his neck and chest, but he didn’t lose his grip on the gun.  Jessica bolted.  She made it as far as the second examination room down the hall before another man appeared in the doorway to block her path.  Jessica’s momentum plowed her into the man’s chest, and it was like crashing into a steel post.  What the hell did this guy eat for breakfast, monkey wrenches?  Jessica bounced to the floor, head ringing as it smacked the tiles, shoulder aching from slamming into The Terminator, and all she could think was _fuck you Carlos, I’m not getting paid enough for this shit_.  She didn’t even have any coffee to drink before Junkie #2 shot her, because she’d hurled it all over Junkie #1’s rumpled suit.

But no gunshot rang out.  Hardly daring to breathe, Jessica squinted one eye open and peeked up at Junkie #2.  He seemed about as strung out as Junkie #1, with the same dark hair and deep hollows under his eyes.  This one was older though, with lines edging his forehead and the corners of his mouth, like the adult version of Junkie #1.  More Al Pacino than James Dean.

Jessica stamped down on that corner of her brain with a wince.  Not the time.

Junkie #2 let out a frustrated, despairing groan.  “Of fucking course,” he grumbled to himself.  Like Junkie #1, he was wearing a suit and tie, though the jacket was unbuttoned and there were large stains dotted across the front.  Sweet Jesus, was that blood?   _Well, why not?_ Jessica thought hysterically, feeling her own blood drain from her face. _I really am getting shot by Al Pacino._

“Dad!” shouted a voice from behind her, and oh good, Junkie #1 was joining the party.  She’d always wanted an audience for her death.  Why hadn’t Junkie #2 just shot her already?  No use dragging it out.

“Would you stand up?”

Jessica peered at Junkie #2, who was pinching the bridge of his nose and looking exasperated.  His gun had been slotted into its holster at his side.  “I- what?” Jessica squeaked.

“Get up.  Christ, we’re not gonna hurt you.”

Jessica scrambled to her feet.  Her hands were shaking slightly from the residual adrenaline.  “Um, thank you?”  She said lamely.  You, ah…  If you’re junkies, our funding is pretty crappy so I think Tramadol’s the strongest drug we have…”  She trailed off as Junkie #2’s expression clouded.

“We’re not here for a fix,” he growled.

Jessica’s heart jackrabbited back to its frantic, we’re-gonna-die pace and she slammed her eyes shut.  “Please, please don’t kidnap me and sell my organs on the black market,” she gasped out, proud of how steady her words were.  “I mean, I don’t exercise.  Ever.  Most of what I eat is ramen noodles, so it’s like damaged goods right?  No one wants shitty, ramen kidneys.  It’d be bad for your business rep, and, and-”

“Please stop talking.”  Not-junkie #2 interrupted.  “We’re not here to steal your organs either.”

Oh thank God.

Not-junkie #1 stepped past her, rubbing at the angry red patches on his neck and jaw where the hot coffee had splashed him.  He gave her a baleful glare.  “Why the hell are you here so early?” he snapped.  “This place isn’t supposed to be open until eight.”

“Uh, I have to do inventory and… stuff,” Jessica said, squinting at the two of them defensively.  “Why am I explaining myself to you!  What’re you doing here?” she spluttered.  “I fucking work here, what’s your excuse?”

Not-junkie #1 opened his mouth, most likely to say something rude judging from his scowl, but Not-junkie #2 put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.  “You’re a doctor?” he asked, examining her shrewdly.

Jessica nodded, her spine straightening.  These guys really were stupid if they’d broken into a free clinic for the medicine and not the _free medical care_ , but whatever.  She’d chosen this job for a reason, and it definitely wasn’t for the salary.  “Is one of you injured?” she said reluctantly.

The two men swapped unreadable glances.  “Not one of us,” Not-junkie #2 answered.  He muttered something that sounded like “Christo,” scanning her face with strange intensity.  Jessica raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was on drugs after all.

“Uh, so why do you need a doctor?” she pressed, once it became clear that Not-junkie #2 wasn’t going to elaborate.  Not-junkie #1 cleared his throat and jerked his head in the direction of exam room two, where Not-junkie #2 had appeared from.  Jessica swallowed but followed him through the doorway.

She stopped at the sight of the kid laid out on the exam table and wondered why the hell she’d gotten out of bed that morning.  The kid was motionless and pale, obviously malnourished, and wearing only a pair of ill fitting dress pants.  For reasons Jessica couldn’t even begin to guess at, he was covered in gold glitter, and his back was a riot of red and yellow paint.  “Party gone wrong?” she said dubiously, because she couldn’t imagine any other scenario.

Not-junkie #1’s mouth thinned.  “You could say that.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Jessica questioned, grabbing a stethoscope from a hook on the wall and moving to the kid’s side.

“He was drugged.” Not-junkie #2 crowded into the room behind them.  He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes, steeling himself.  “And raped.  Maybe other injuries we don’t know about.”

Jessica’s head whipped up.  “What?” she said in a strangled voice.  “Why the hell did you bring him here?  He should be in a goddamn emergency room!”

“We can’t go to a hospital,” Not-junkie #2 glowered back.  “They’d call the cops before they’d checked him into a room!”

Jessica blinked hard, remembering that this guy had a gun stashed under his jacket.  “Right,” she said, and decided not to ask why he was so determined to avoid the police.  Carlos couldn’t fight plausible deniability.

“So you can help him?” Not-junkie #1 was staring at her keenly.  She looked between the three of them, finally seeing the desperation in the two men’s postures, the way they hovered over the third with furious concern.  Not-junkie #2’s jaw was clenched so hard she half-expected to hear the cracking sound of teeth breaking.  Not-junkie #1 was shaky and wan, one hand wrapped around the kid’s wrist as though to ground himself.  She cursed the bleeding heart that had driven her to take this job.

“Well, that is the point of a free clinic,” Jessica said slowly.  Both not-junkies relaxed by increments.  “But,” she continued, “I wasn’t lying about the Tramadol.  We’re not very well funded, so there’s only so much I can do and we’re not equipped for emergency situations.”

Not-junkie #2 nodded.  “Thank you,” he said.

Jessica focused back on her newest patient.  “There are plastic bins in the corner of the supply room,” she said over her shoulder.  “Could you bring one in here and fill it with warm water?  We need to clean him up before I can fully examine him.”

Not-junkie #2 left the room as she began taking the kid’s vitals.  She checked his heart rate, blood pressure, breathing, and pupil response, all with the lurking presence of Not-junkie #1 in the background.  He had yet to let go of the kid’s wrist, but he kept his mouth shut and stayed out of the way, so Jessica didn’t object.

“What’s his name?” she asked gently, breaking the silence that stretched between them.

Not-junkie #1’s red-rimmed eyes flicked up to meet her own.  “Sam,” he mumbled.  “And I’m Dean.”

“I’m Jessica,” she told him.  “And your friend is…?”

“Uh, John,” Dean said stiffly.  “He’s our dad.”

Well, that explained a few things.  Jessica replaced her stethoscope and hesitated before glancing at Dean.  “I’m assuming there’s more to this that just an out of control party,” she hedged.  She held up her hands as Dean’s grip tightened defensively around Sam’s wrist.  “I’m not asking what happened,” she said hurriedly.  “But if you can tell me anything about his condition, it would help.”

Dean shook his head, chewing his lip.  “I don’t- I don’t know anything more.”  He seemed to shrink into himself.

“Okay.  That’s okay.  Don’t worry about it.”

The sloshing of water preceded John’s reappearance.  He shouldered in through the door and set the tub on a chair beside Sam.

“Thank you,” Jessica said.  “Now, um…” she paused, unsure of what to say.  She’d never had an unconscious rape victim to deal with before, much less his intimidating and potentially unstable family members. _Fuck it,_ she thought.  Bluntness had worked up to this point.  “I’m not sure if you want to be here for this,” she told them.  “I’m going to need to undress and bathe him, so if you two want to wait in the hall?”  She nearly quailed under the blank stare Dean gave her.  “Or not!  Or we can all stay in here, that works too.”

She directed Dean to the cabinets for sponges, and had John lift Sam so that she could slide him out of his dress pants.  “And these?” she asked, pointing to one of the thick bracelets Sam was wearing.  “How do these come off?”

John swore under his breath.  “They’re uh, locked on,” he said, anger poorly hidden in his tone.  Jessica bit the inside of her cheek and counted to ten in her mind.  Even if Dean and John weren’t telling her the details, it was hard to ignore the picture that was forming.  It made her heart pound even as outrage bubbled in her stomach.  “Is there a hardware store nearby?” John asked.  “One that would sell a soldering iron?”

“None that would be open.  There’s one on Marine Street, but you’d have to wait another hour or two-”  She cut herself off as John waved her concerns away and strode off down the hallway. _Men with guns,_ she reminded herself. _Just deal with Sam first.  Then cops.  Maybe._

Meanwhile, Dean had dumped a pile of sponges into the tub of water.  “He’ll be back soon,” he assured her.

“Right.”  Jessica shook herself and reached for a sponge.  The first swipe across Sam’s shoulder lifted with it a broad line of gold, and before long the water in the tub was opaque and sparkling with glitter.  Dean helped her for a time, cleaning off Sam’s arms and working at the giant, fiery phoenix painted across Sam’s back.  However, once he’d uncovered the large, bootprint-shaped bruise between Sam’s shoulder blades, he dropped his sponge and retreated to the side of the room, snorting like a distressed bull.

“These, um, piercings,” Jessica ventured after a time, flinching as Dean’s glare snapped onto her.  “They’re pretty new.  Did he want them or…?”

A green tint colored Dean’s cheeks.  “Get them off,” he croaked.  His gaze lingered on Sam’s chest and then caught on the Prince Albert.  He shoved a hand over his eyes, breaths coming choppy and short.  “Please.  Get them off now.”

Jessica did as he asked.  As she took over where Dean had left off, the painted phoenix blurred and smeared under the strokes of her sponge.  Watery red droplets ran in trickles down Sam’s sides, pooling on the table below.

 

* * *

 

 

_Images flash past my eyelids like disjointed scenes from a grainy, water-spotted film._

_A woman, laughing as she dances, dress flaring about her._

_A man’s grinning mouth, red lips stretching grotesquely._

_Blood caught in the crevices of Cheverill’s gleaming nails._

_Where am I?_

_Pain bursts without warning, lights exploding in sparkling fireworks, lighting up the darkness.  My back arches up.  My throat seizes.  What is happening?  I’ve been good.  Why is he punishing me?_

“Jesus Christ!  What the hell was that?”

_The pain fades, but my neck is stinging and my body feels so light.  Unmoored.  As though my bones have been hollowed out.  Marrow replaced with smoke and froth._

“We can’t explain now.  Get the next one off.”

“Did you know this would happen?”

“No.  Maybe Cheverill installed a failsafe?”

_The voices make no sense.  Is the party not over?  I’m trying to be good, but there’s heat searing against my left wrist and then pain, pain, pain.  It sinks hooks into my chest, drives serrated wire under my skin and into my blood.  My face is wet.  I think I might be screaming._

“Shh, Sam, it’s okay!”

“Jesus, stop!  You’re going to kill him!”

“Listen, Doc, I know you’re trying to help, but we’ve gotta do this.”

_Something is buzzing.  I wish I could move, get away from the horrible noise.  The smoke is still here though, coiling in my joints and cementing them in place.  Locked inside my own skeleton.  The buzzing grows louder, and the heat returns, centered over my right wrist.  A click.  For the third time, pain, everywhere, blotting out my thoughts._

_Time passes.  Does it?  I can’t tell.  It’s so dark, like a coffin.  I don’t like coffins.  They remind me of Cheverill’s box.  But I’m not there anymore, right?  There was a party.  Champagne flutes glittering in the diamond light cast by a chandelier.  Blood spraying in a fan across the wooden floor.  Everywhere, people laughing, laughing, laughing.  Two shapes above me with melted edges, urgent voices drifting like the smoke in my hollow bones.  Rough touches.  Gentle touches._

_The smoke is thinner.  I can feel my body, wiggle my fingers and toes.  I’m lying down.  There’s something… soft?  Like hospital scrubs.  I’m wearing hospital scrubs.  Why?_

_Someone sighs from beside my left hip.  A hand is holding mine in a slack grip, and the knuckles are tough with callouses.  A jolt of adrenaline stabs through me and I recoil, a pair of green eyes meeting mine as I fall backwards, down, down, down...._

 

* * *

 

 

“Sam!”  

Dean hadn’t meant to fall asleep, dammit.  He’d rested his forehead on the mattress for two seconds, and next thing he knew, Sam was skidding off the side of the cot and crashing to the polished floor.  Dean leapt to his feet and stepped around the bed frame.  “Sam?”

Sam stared up at him, long hair framing his sickly face and his hazel eyes wild.  His palms were pressed to the tiled floor, polished nails scratching against the tile floor with a grating, scraping noise.  “Sam?” Dean repeated.  Sam met his gaze feverishly.  Dean held out his hands, making himself as small as possible, like he was calming a spooked dog.  His heart pounded in the base of his throat, so painfully obvious he was sure Sam could see it.

Sam looked from Dean’s face to his hands, still staring.  Emotions flickered behind his eyes, too fast for Dean too make out. His arms started to tremble.  “Dean?” he finally whispered.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean rasped hoarsely.  “It’s me.  Dad’s here too.  We got you out, remember?”

Sam’s expression shuttered uncertainly.  “This is real?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Dean felt his face crumple.  Footsteps pounded down the hallway before he could answer, and a moment later John had barrelled through the doorway.  “Are you okay?” he demanded, body tense as though expecting a fight and, bizarrely, a canister of salt clutched in his right hand.  “I heard a thud and…”  He noticed Sam and his voice shook as it died away.  “Sam?” he said.

Sam blinked at him.  “Hi, Dad,” he said quietly.

For once, John seemed lost for words.  “You, um.  How are you feeling?” he stuttered.  John never stuttered.

Sam swallowed, his throat clicking.  “I’m…. Could I have some water?”

“Of course,” John nodded, dredging up a smile.  He looked at Sam, an odd furrow between his brows, before vanishing back the way he’d came.

“Sam?” Dean said again.  His throat was too tight, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.  Sam glanced up at him, bangs hanging in front of his eyes.   _Are you okay?_ Dean wanted to ask, and _I was worried.  I missed you.  You’re safe now._  But he couldn’t force the words past his tongue.  “Do you want to get back on the bed?” he asked instead.  

Sam sat up gingerly.  “Okay,” he said.  He reached up to grab the bedframe, and Dean hurried forward to slide under his shoulder for support.  His shirt brushed Sam’s armpit and Sam lurched away from him with a growl.  “I don’t need any fucking help!” he snarled, dragging himself back onto the bed without meeting Dean’s eyes.

Dean dropped his arms immediately.  “I’m sorry,” he cringed.  “I just… the doc said your feet were a bit messed up, so I thought…”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam said, picking at the blankets between his legs.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t know why I yelled like that.”

John reappeared in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and the salt canister nowhere in sight.  The doctor followed behind him as he stepped into the room.  “This is Doctor Sands,” John told Sam, holding out the water for him to take.  “She’d like to check you over, if that’s okay?  To make sure the drugs are working their way out of your system.”

Sam snuck a glance at John from under his lashes.  “Uh, yeah, okay,” he mumbled, sounding surprised.  “Go for it.”

Dr. Sands drew a chair up beside the bed and pulled a small flashlight from her breast pocket.  “This’ll be fast,” she assured Sam, smiling faintly.  She rechecked Sam’s pupils and motor functions, then had him answer a series of question and recorded her results on her chart.  “You seem to have slept off the worst of it,” she said kindly.  She gestured to the water, and Sam took an obedient sip.  “Drinking that will make you feel better, but the drugs don’t appear to have any adverse effects.”  To John, Dr. Sands said, “If you want to wait for the results of the blood tests, it shouldn’t be too much longer.”  She left, closing the door behind her.

Sam went back to twisting the cheap, hospital sheets between clenched fingers.  “So,” he said, a blush rising up his neck.  “What… what happened?  How’d you guys find me?”  He kept his eyes firmly on his hands.

John cleared his throat and slumped into the chair that Dr. Sands had vacated.  “We tracked down those men that grabbed you,” he shrugged, sharing a vindictive look with Dean.  “They won’t be getting out of jail anytime soon, by the way.  They told us where to find Cheverill.”  

“Okay.”  Sam sank farther back on his pillows, tone weary beyond description.

“Cheverill’s gone too,” Dean blurted out.  “He’s dead.”  He waited for a smile, maybe, or a breath of relief.  Any reaction at all.  Sam only blinked.

“Dead?” he checked, brushing his fingers over his left wrist, where Dr. Sands had bandaged over the burns the cuffs had left behind.  Sam went rigid, then yanked his arm up to gape at his wrist in disbelief.

“Sam, no, stop!” John barked, but Sam ignored him.  He tore at the bandages, ripping them away from his skin, revealing the strange, swirling runes branded into his skin.  A strange sound escaped from his throat.  His face was shocked, eyes huge and glassy.

“Dammit, we’re gonna have to rewrap that,” Dad snapped.  He went to the cabinets to cast around for another set of bandages.

“Dead,” Dean confirmed resolutely, plowing through the interruption.  “And he’s not coming back either.”

Sam blinked again and went back to picking at the blankets beneath him.

“He’s dead, Sam,” Dean said again.  Had Sam heard him?

“Okay,” Sam replied.  He sounded blank.  The threads creaked beneath his fingers as John came back to tape fresh bandages over his wrists.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam’s test results came back negative for STD’s, positive for an unknown cocktail of benzodiazepines.  Sam avoided eye contact with everyone as the doctor explained how to prevent his piercing sites from becoming infected, and to stay off his feet for a couple more days until they’d had a chance to heal.  She helped them roll Sam out to the Impala in a rickety wheelchair and sent them on their way, glad to see the backs of them.

Dean changed out of his coffee-stained suit and climbed into the back with Sam, peeking over at him every so often as John put more miles between them and Marquette.  They passed out of Wisconsin and into Iowa, and the silence was stifling.  Sam stared unseeing out the window, barely grunting when they stopped at a 7-11 to grab food and gas.  He took the danish and granola bar that Dean tossed to him, then resumed his vigil at the window, the snacks lying forgotten in his lap.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean tried, as they approached the Iowa-Nebraska border.  “You’ve gotta be hungry.  When was the last time you ate?”

Sam jerked his attention away from the passing scenery and ducked his head, shrugging.  “M’not hungry,” he said lowly.

“I know it’s not one of your prissy salads, but better than cheetos, right?” Dean said, aiming for his usual, teasing tone.  The words fell flat and forced.  Sam shrugged again, picking at the wrapper of the danish with his manicured nails.  Dean made a mental note to buy some polish remover at the next supermarket they passed.  “You’ve gotta eat something, Sam,” he pleaded.

Sam caught John’s eyes, watching the exchange through the rearview mirror, and reluctantly peeled the plastic off of the granola bar.  He took a wooden bite and turned back to the window.

They crossed into Nebraska not long afterwards.  When they reached Lincoln, John booked them into the first Quality Inn they came across.  Under normal circumstances, Dean would have been thrilled; John never shelled out the cash for accommodations like these.  But the novelty of stain-free walls was lost as Dean carried both his and Sam’s duffles into the room, then returned to the car to help Sam himself limp across the parking lot.  John had already dumped his duffle on bed nearest the door and was busy lining the windows liberally with salt.  Dean set Sam down gently on the end of their own mattress and flopped down beside him, as close as he dared.

“Thanks,” Sam said to his lap, and Dean forced himself to smile.

“No problem.  You ah, want to shower or have a bath or anything?  We cleaned you up as best we could at the clinic, but…”  He trailed off.  Sam was blushing miserably, still refusing to lift his head.

“Right, yeah.  Sorry.  I’ll shower,” he muttered.  His head dipped, if possible, even lower.  “Could you, um-”  He waved vaguely at the distance between them and the bathroom.

“Course!” Dean said immediately.  He hooked one arm under Sam’s shoulders and supported him off the bed, relieved beyond measure that Sam was okay with being touched.  He’d asked to be touched.  That was good, right?  One less hurdle for Sam to jump so he could put all this behind him?

They staggered into the bathroom together, and Dean flipped the toilet seat down so Sam could sit while he started the water.  This close, Dean could smell the remnants of paint and perfume on Sam’s skin, the lingering saltiness of sex and sweat and blood.  There was nothing of Sam, no scent of cheap detergent or tang of pine.  No woody sweetness of old paper.  Dean bit his cheek, careful to keep his smile fixed and his expression mild.  “Do you want me to stay in case you need anything?” he offered.

“No,” Sam answered, so firmly that Dean couldn’t argue.  “Thanks though.”

“I’ll leave some clothes for you inside the door.  Yell for me when you’re done so we can rewrap your rib and get some clean bandages on your wrists.”

Sam shrugged, but it wasn’t a no, so Dean took his cue and left him to it.  He emerged into the main room to the hiss of spray paint.  John was tracing a strange symbol on the ceiling above the door, similar to a pentagram but more intricate.  “Dad,” Dean said tentatively.  “What is that?”

“Nothing,” John grunted.  “Just a protective sigil.  Can’t be too careful.”

“Is that necessary?”  Dean moved to Sam’s duffle and unzipped it, sifting through the clothes for Sam’s favorite sweatpants and hoodie.  “I mean, Cheverill’s dead.  He’s not coming after us.”

“Humor me,” John snapped shortly.  He completed the design and chucked the bottle of spray paint back into his bag.  Dean wondered what the maids were going to think next time they came to clean the room.  

“Sam’s showering,” he said, letting the topic drop for now.  “So if you have a plan for what we should do, now would be a great time to share with the class.”  Dean didn’t have the slightest clue for what was supposed to happen next.  He’d been so fixated on saving Sam that he hadn’t considered any steps beyond that.  Rationally, he’d known that Sam would need time to recover, but imagining it was a far cry from having Sam in front of him, with feet too bruised to walk and cheekbones protruding from a sallow face.

“For tonight, the plan is for you to stay here while I go out and get us some real food,” John said.  “After that, we’ll lay low.  Maybe head up to Sioux Falls to see Bobby, give Sam a couple weeks to get back into the swing of things.”

“‘The swing of things’?” Dean repeated.

“He can start a modified training schedule in the next week or so, but I’m thinking he’ll only do research until he’s back to one hundred percent,” John said, frowning sternly.  Dean got the feeling that he’d missed a crucial element of the conversation.  “He needs to gain back muscle mass before he can come hunting with us again.”

It took a moment for Dean to realize that his jaw was hanging open.  “Are you kidding me?” he coughed out.  “Hunting?  You want to go right back to hunting?  It hasn’t even been twenty four hours since we got him back, Dad!  He needs time to fucking heal!”

“And that’s why he’ll only be doing research,” John said reasonably, sounding irritated.

“That’s not the point!” Dean shouted, struggling to keep his voice down.  John was so goddamn calm, Dean wanted to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him.  

“We’re going to Bobby’s first, remember?  I’m not suggesting we throw Sam in front of a rawhead, for God’s sake.”  John held up a hand as Dean started to speak, making Dean grind his teeth together in frustration.  It was like arguing with a brick wall.  “Not up for debate, Dean.  Sam is going to be fine.  I’ll be back in an hour, maybe two.  I’ll pick up some supplies for us while I’m out.”  Keys jangling in one hand, John vanished out the door before Dean knew what was happening.

“What.  The.  Hell.” Dean snarled into the empty room.  The shower was still running, so he left Sam’s clothes in a pile on the bathroom sink and dug through to the bottom of his own duffle.

When Sam emerged from his shower ten minutes later, he found Dean outside, sitting on the concrete and leaning back against the wall of the motel.  Cigarette smoke was curling from between his lips, and the freshly opened pack was lying on the ground by his hip.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Sam greeted him.

Dean hadn’t noticed the hinges squeak open.  He jerked in surprise, twisting to see Sam kneeling on the carpet just inside the doorway, wet hair leaving damp spots on the collar of his hoodie.  “Didn’t know you had such a vested interest in my lungs,” he replied, and Sam’s mouth quirked up.  Almost a fucking _smile_.  “Yeah, that’s right,” Dean bragged, emboldened.  “‘Vested’.  You’re not the only one who knows big words, Geekboy.”

Sam’s almost-smile dimmed, but then he rolled his eyes and the knot of tension eased in Dean’s chest.  “Vested isn’t even that big of a word,” Sam said, the _“you idiot”_ evident in his tone.

Dean brushed his skepticism aside.  “You wanna come sit out here?” he asked.  He patted the ground beside him invitingly.

“Uh sure,” Sam said.  His chin was lowered, overlong hair shielding his eyes.  “Sorry.  Could you give me a hand?  Sorry.”  Even with the hair, Dean could see the bitter helplessness tugging at the corner of his lips.

“C’mon,” Dean said, standing.  He allowed Sam to use him as a crutch over to the wall, and together they sat, looking out over the parking lot.

The sun was setting.  Dean stretched out his legs, enjoying the loud cracking in his knees.  He’d been in a car for thirteen of the past eighteen hours, and the cool evening was heaven against his skin.  Beside him, Sam turned his face into the light breeze blowing through the lot, the wind tousling his damp hair.  He inhaled greedily, as though the air was a fine wine that he’d only get to savor once.  Cars buzzed by on the highway just out of view, and a chattering family was hauling suitcases from their car to the unit four doors away from where they were sitting.

_Who the hell comes to Lincoln for a vacation anyway?_ Dean thought, snorting to himself.  Give him Florida anyday.  He flicked his lighter on and off absently.

Out of the blue, Sam said, “You can keep smoking, you know.  I don’t mind.”  

Dean froze guiltily, his finger on the wheel of the lighter, and considered Sam for a moment.  “You better not tell Dad,” he warned, and Sam raised an innocent eyebrow.

“He probably already knows.  You reek.”

“Eh, shaddup.”  Dean popped out another cigarette and lit it, its tip flaring crimson in the darkening twilight.

“When did you start?” Sam asked, watching as Dean took a long drag.  The tip brightened until it was glowing a rich, cherry red.

Dean’s lips parted and he exhaled, letting the smoke billow from them to be caught and shredded by the breeze.  “Week and a half ago, give or take,” he admitted.  “I was pissed off.  Dad was so on edge, I couldn’t stand to be around him.  I told him I was going for a walk and he damn near exploded.  It was a bad night.  Your trail was going cold and he’d been drinking harder than usual.”

Sam was silent, a granite silhouette beside him.

“He started yelling, so I started yelling back, and it all just kind of fell apart from there.  I left, because one of us needed to and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Dad.”  Dean stared at his cigarette, spinning it around between his fingers before lifting it to take another puff.  “I don’t think we’ve ever had a fight like that.  Anyway, some guy on the street offered me one, said it looked like I needed it, and I thought, why not?  It was… I liked it.  Something to distract me, I guess.”

“Those things’ll kill ya,” Sam said, mouth twitching in that almost-smile.

Dean grinned.  “If I live long enough to be worried about lung cancer, that’ll be a miracle right there.”

They fell quiet, allowing the hum of traffic and the occasional barking of dogs to fill the space between them.  The sun was nudging at the horizon, painting the clouds a creamy rose and staining the blue sky with violet.  Shadows stretched long and spindly across the ground.  Down the hall, the family finished moving in and their babbling conversation cut off with a snap as their door swung closed.

“So,” Dean began.  Sam’s shoulders hunched inwards, and Dean scrambled for the words that wouldn’t fuck things up magnificently.  “I don’t know how much you remember.  Of last night.”

Sam focused determinedly on his lap, the fingers of one hand tracing the faint runes seared into his opposite wrist.  “Not much,” he answered at last, feigning nonchalance.  “It’s all kind of a blur.”

“Oh.  Hey, I forgot, we should dress your wrists.  We have some burn cream to put on them, make ‘em heal faster.”

“How did you kill him?” Sam blurted.  He spat the question as though his lips were bloody, slices left from its jagged edges.  “Cheverill, I mean.  How did he die?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably.  “It wasn’t even us that did it, really,” he said hesitantly.  “I mean, we tried of course, put about twelve rounds into the bastard, but he healed too damn quickly.  In the end it was-”

“Wait, wait, wait.”  Sam put up his hands, utterly bewildered.  “What do you mean, ‘healed too quickly’?”

Dean sighed and launched into an extremely cliff-notes version of the story, leaving out the details he didn’t think Sam needed.  The extent of Cheverill’s mauling, for example.  How Dean and John had found Sam, being passed around the circle of Cheverill’s guests, or later, pressed against the wall with Cheverill panting above him.  The memories made Dean’s fists clench, and he pushed them away hard.  No, Sam didn’t need to know those things.

Yet despite Dean’s editing, by the time his story concluded Sam’s face was white.  “A warlock,” he said distantly.

“Yeah, what a freak, right?  I suppose it’s good, in a way, that all those ghosts stuck around in his backyard until they got their chance to off him.  If it hadn’t been for them, I don’t think we could’ve…” Dean’s voice dwindled as he caught sight of Sam’s expression.  “You didn’t know,” he realized.

“I knew about the ghosts,” Sam said, fingers still outlining the runes around his wrist.  “Not about the warlock bit.”  His fingers spasmed, digging into the branded skin.  “A lot of things make sense now though.  I should have worked it out earlier.”

Dean reached over and gently pried Sam’s hand away from his arm.  “I know I’m maybe not the best person for stuff like this,” he said carefully.  “But if you ever need to-”

“No, Dean.”

“You didn’t even let me-”

“No.”  Sam lifted his head and met Dean’s eyes squarely for the first time since he’d woken up that morning.  “Just, no.  I don’t want to talk about it, and you sure as hell don’t want to hear it.”

Dammit, Dean really did suck at this.  “That doesn’t mean you can just box this away,” he maintained doggedly.  

“Bet that hurt to say,” Sam shot back.  Ouch.

“I’ve never been through something like this!” Dean growled.  “Yeah, great, I’ve got Mommy issues, I grew up too fast, whatever.  I’ve never been…”

“Raped?” Sam said harshly.  Dean flinched but didn’t back down, matching Sam’s angry scowl with one of his own.

“Never been tortured by a psychopath for over a week.  Never been kidnapped and drugged and sold.  That’s not the sort of shit you can just shake off, Sammy.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Sam demanded, voice rising.  “You want me to talk about how horrible it was?  Yeah, Dean, it sucked.  Big surprise.”

“You know that’s not what I-”

“You want me to say I was scared?”  Sam was glaring now.  His chest heaved as he gasped for air, jaw clenched tightly.  “That what you wanna hear Dean?  How fucking terrifying it was every time he held me down or tied me up or shocked me until I pissed myself?”

“Sam,” Dean said weakly, his stomach clenching and a syrupy, clogged wetness blocking his airways.

“This is what you asked for, isn’t it?”  Sam’s voice broke and he spread his arms to either side.  “Here it is Dean.  I’m sharing my fucking feelings like you wanted me to.”

Dean bit his lip until blood spread sweet and coppery over his tongue.  “You’re right,” he said, ignoring the ugly rasp in his throat.  “I asked.  I’m listening Sam, whatever you need, whatever you say, I’m right here.”

Sam’s teeth clicked shut.  He stared at Dean, gathering shadows caught in the indents of his cheekbones.  Above them, the sky was fading into a velvety, royal blue.  The first silver star was visible over the rooftops.  

“Sam?” Dean said in concern.  And, inexplicably, Sam started to laugh.  His eyes squeezed shut and his head tipped back, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.  Tiny snorts snagged in his nose, air wheezing in and out of his lungs.  He laughed until his cheeks were red and tears were spilling from beneath his closed eyelids, until the laughter sounded barbed and painful, and sobs were ripping through his chest instead.  Haltingly, Dean shifted to press his hip against Sam’s, half-raising one arm in wordless invitation.  Sam leaned into him blindly, so Dean wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulders and tucked Sam tightly to his side.  “S’okay,” Dean murmured into Sam’s hair.  “I gotcha.”  

He sat there, Sam curled against him, until the sun had vanished beneath the horizon and the wind was biting through the gaps in his clothing.  He sat until Sam fell asleep, exhausted from the events of the day and drooling all over Dean’s shirt.  Dean didn’t mind.  He stubbed the remains of his cigarette against the ground, Sam’s weight warm against him, and watched the evening stars sparkle in the last of the dying sunlight.

 

* * *

 

 

**Massacre In Marquette**

 

Oct 17.  Over 100 bodies were discovered last night in a manor house outside of Marquette, MI.  The property, belonging to businessman Alexandre Cheverill, was visited by police after an anonymous tip was placed at 2:37 a.m. to 911 operators.  As of yet, no suspects for this slaughter have been named.  According to Officer Donald Mills, police believe that this may have been a mass suicide.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” says Officer Mills, describing the scene.  “It was like something out of a horror movie.”

Among the bodies discovered were several prominent community members, including Governor Harris Durden and CEO of SteelPro Industries™, Kathleen Roberts.  No further names have been released, though the host, Alexandre Cheverill, has yet to be found.

“Until we can gather further evidence, we’re assuming that these are the actions of some kind of cult,” says Officer Mills.  Many of the wounds found on the bodies are believed to be ritualistically self-inflicted, which has lead the police to this conclusion.  

Forensic work performed on several of the bodies has revealed a large amount of sulfur at the scene, baffling analysts as to why

 

Cont. A4 MASSACRE

 

John refolded the newspaper and tossed it onto the barstool next to him, not bothering to read the rest of the article.  It was all bullshit anyway.   _Cult activity._  John snorted in derision, lifting his whiskey to take another gulp.  The things people told themselves to avoid the truth.

He leaned his elbows on the counter and hunched over his drink, staring into its amber depths like a psychic reading tea leaves.  Fucking demons.  Nearly eighteen years he’d been tracking their movements with the pathetic information he had, and all of a sudden they’d decided to surface.  For Sam.  John threw his drink back and motioned the bartender for another.  He planned to be far more drunk by the time he tackled those thoughts.  

“Whoa, slow down there, Tiger.  You keep brooding like this and you’ll get wrinkles.”  Somebody hopped into the stool next to him, picking up the paper he’d left there and surveying the front page.  “Tragic, isn’t it?  All those poor people.”

John fought down his annoyance.  “Look, buddy,” he said, turning to the speaker.  “I’m just trying to have a drink, okay?  I’m not in the mood…”  His voice died away.  Devon was smirking at him, one eyebrow raised sardonically.

“I’m hurt Johnny, really I am,” Devon pouted.  “I thought we’d bonded last night.  You’re not even going to buy me a drink?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” John hissed, reaching automatically for the gun hidden at the small of his back.

“Put that away,” Devon said, catching the bartender’s eye.  “Stop threatening to shoot me in public places.  It’s getting irritating.  One Pink Raspberry Cosmo, please,” he told the bartender.  She shrugged and began pulling bottles of alcohol from the shelves behind her.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t exorcise you right here,” John snarled under his breath.  “You attacked my son.  You murdered God knows how many people last night.  Innocents.”

“For one, you wouldn’t be able to finish your exorcism before I slit your throat,” Devon said, smiling pleasantly.  “Secondly, I was extremely gentle with Dean last night.  I could have given him so much worse than just a bruised jaw and a headache.  You should probably be thanking me for showing the restraint that I did.”

John scowled, hand still twitching towards the butt of his gun.  “Why are you here?” he demanded.  “And why are demons so interested in Sam?  What do you want from him?”

The bartender slid a revoltingly pink cocktail in front of Devon, who winked at her and tipped an invisible hat in thanks.  “So many questions,” he said, taking a delicate sip.

“What the fuck are you drinking.”

“Aw Johnny, relax why don’t you?  You can stop defending your masculinity, pink doesn’t actually shrivel your dick.  Live a little!  You want some?  It’s scrumptious.  Like me.”  Devon wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at John and offered him the glass.

“Why are you so interested in Sam?” John repeated.

Devon pulled his drink back, sulking.  “You’re no fun,” he told John.  “And as I said before, that’s classified.  Very hush hush, you know how it is.  I’m sure you’ll find out in due time, whenever my boss decides to move the plan forward.”

“What plan?  Stop fucking toying with me and give me some answers!”

“Shh,” Devon scolded him.  He gave the bartender an apologetic wave.  “Don’t be so rude, Johnny.  It’s unnecessary.  If you must know, I’m here to give you a message.”

John stiffened and cast a suspicious glare around the rest of the bar.  It was decently crowded for a Saturday night, with a scattering of groups dispersed around the tables.  There were five or six other people hovering around the long counter, nursing their drinks or chatting to the person beside them.  None were within earshot.

“This message from your boss?” he said, reaching for his forgotten whiskey.  The liquor burned in his throat and stomach as he took a long swallow.

Devon licked at the pink and white sugar crusted around the lip of his glass.  “Yessir,” he confirmed.  He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and passed it across the table to John.  “This is an address.  The woman who lives there is a specialist, and you’re gonna need her talents.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on,” Devon rolled his eyes.  “Surely you don’t believe that Cheverill picked Sammy out by accident?”

John went cold.  “What are you saying?” he asked, clenching his fist around his whiskey.  Christ, he sounded like a broken record.

“Sammy’s special!” Devon cried.  “I mean, seriously, you’ve had to have noticed by now.  Sam’s got power, Johnny.  It’s not that hard to work out.  Cheverill saw it, even if he didn’t know what it meant, but that’s not a good sign.  Sam’s, what, seventeen?  He’s maturing, which means his power is gonna start bleeding through more and more.  Soon, Cheverill won’t be the only one who’s taking notice.”  He tapped the piece of paper.  “Go see her.  She’ll be able to mask Sam’s powers for a few more years at least.”

“You’re heading off competition for who might get Sam,” John said with dawning realization.  “You don’t want anyone getting to him before your boss is ready.”

“Always knew you were smart,” Devon grinned.  He took a last, dainty sip of his pink monstrosity, stood, and pinned a twenty dollar bill under his empty glass.  “Glad we had this heart to heart,” he said.

“Can’t say I feel the same.”

“Oh John, how you wound me.”  

“Fuck you.  Stay away from my son.”

Devon put a hand on John’s knee and bent in close, mouth nearly touching John’s ear.  John leaned away instinctively, but he was blocked by the counter at his back.  “I’m going to be crystal clear,” Devon purred, breath puffing against John’s neck and fingers clenching painfully into the joint of his knee.  “Sammy doesn’t belong to you.  We’re letting you keep him, for now, because it’s not time to collect.  But as soon as we’re ready, he’s _ours_ , you understand?  Better you accept it sooner rather than later.  Don’t get too attached, Johnny.”  Devon patted John’s cheek affectionately and trotted out of the bar, the rotten smell of sulfur lingering in the air behind him.

John sagged against the bar, clutching his whiskey in nerveless fingers.  The liquor winked up at him as he swirled it around the glass, trapping the dim lights of the bar in layers of amber.

“You doing alright, honey?” the bartender asked, coming over to pick up Devon’s glass.  “You’re looking a bit upset.”

“Long night,” John said, tilting back the last of his whiskey.  He set the tumbler down on the dark, polished bar and stretched, rolling the tension out of his shoulders.  “Just one of those days, you know?”

The bartender hummed in agreement.  “This yours?” she asked.  She flicked the piece of paper still lying on the table.   John hesitated for a brief moment before nodding and sweeping the paper into his jacket.  “Another?” the bartender offered, lifting the bottle of whiskey from the shelves behind her.  

John shook his head.  “No, thanks.  I’m just gonna head home.  Got both my sons waiting for me.”

  
  
End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Wow. It's finally over. 
> 
> Except not! Because there will be a sequel, for those who aren't quite sick of this verse just yet. Don't look for it anytime soon, because I'm going to take a break from this verse for a bit, but I'll be back soon with the story of Sam's recovery!


End file.
